How You Stay Alive
by LaughingSenselessly
Summary: "You and him will live again by my hand. But whether you fall in love again, is entirely up to you." (Reincarnation AU. 9 lives where Clarke and Bellamy meet again, and again, and again.)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I realize the concept of a reincarnation AU has been beaten to death but yolo. In any case, it's been fun to plan; however, the extent of my historical research is a shitton of googling and wikipedia over the past few months, which aren't exactly primary sources so i apologize in advance for inevitable inaccuracies. And a huge thank you to MJ (tumblr: wellamyblake) and Sjaan (tumblr: readymachine) for beta-reading this and giving suggestions to make it better.**

 **This fic will have 9 lifetimes total, 3 in each chapter. (Some of those lifetimes will be much longer or shorter than others). It basically became an excuse to write a bunch of AUs without developing them properly lol, so take it for what it is I guess. I hope you like it.**

* * *

Queen Clarke's never been one for superstition.

Or at least, she likes to think that she's not as taken in by fairy tales as many people in her time. Her husband was always the one who humoured their subjects when they came up with their outlandish tales, but to her, it was nonsense and she had no patience for it. So the story of the djinn who lives in the dark cave somewhere a few hours a winding, mountainous walk away on the kingdom's outskirts has never been one she put much stock in.

Tonight, however, as she stops her horse in front of the dark cave at the top of the mountain path— she _is_ a believer.

She has to be. She is desperate.

She jumps off her horse and hurries to the wheeled cart that it's been hauling along. There's a mound on the cart— a figure, shrouded with black cloth.

The young queen stares at the figure for only a moment while the wind howls around her. Then she raises an arm to wipe at her eyes. With difficulty she unhitches the cart off the horse and wheels it behind her into the cave.

She's barely inside when a voice sounds out, crawling from the darkest corners of the cave. "To what pleasure do I owe having the queen in my humble home?"

The queen blinks blindly into the darkness, pulling her scarf away from her mouth to say, "I ask a favour."

"A favour," the voice repeats scratchily. There's a whoosh sound, and the cave is suddenly illuminated by a torch held in the veiny hand of the djinn.

The queen, admirably, does not back down from her— the djinn is shrouded in shadows, eye sockets set into her skull so deep it's nearly impossible to make out her eyes. She's tall, impossibly so, and seems to stand on a dark swirling cloud rather than legs, or perhaps that's just the queen's imagination. It's too dark to see. "Yes," she whispers, craning her neck to look the tall woman in the eye and clutching tighter onto her scarf. "I can offer you anything in return— riches, glory, all of it."

"I'd imagine you could, Your Highness," the djinn replies wryly.

The queen regards the djinn seriously. "You'll have it. If you do this one thing for me."

"Well, I'm intrigued," the djinn replies. "What is it?"

The queen takes a deep breath and then turns to the cart she's hauled up this mountain with her. With not so much as a flourish, she pulls the black cloth away, revealing a handsome man's face, eyes closed, jet black curls flat against his forehead, freckles dotting his unnaturally pale cheeks.

"The king," the djinn says finally, now sounding mildly surprised. "So the rumors were true. He was sick."

The queen has not taken her eyes off the king since the moment she pulled the cloth away from his face. Now she drapes the cloth back over him gently, almost as a caress. "I want you to bring him back. I tried to save him myself, but..." She swallows. "But I couldn't."

Her voice, up till now very strong, breaks a little.

"So what?" the djinn asks, clearly unmoved. "He's already given you children, hasn't he? Sons and daughters. What else do you want from him?"

"I don't want anything from him," the queen replies fiercely, with a glare. "I just… I want _him_. I miss him."

The djinn is once again caught slightly off guard. "Your marriage was one of love?" It's completely unheard of.

The queen shrugs, looking back down at the shrouded figure, and shifts from foot to foot. "Love, duty," she murmurs. "It all became the same thing in the end."

"Touching," the djinn sneers after a pause, but with less venom than usual. "And what could I possibly do for him, when you, the best healer in the land, could not save him?"

The queen looks her in the eye. "Don't play games with me. I know you're a— a magician." It's a gamble— she's not sure at all— but she's proven correct when the djinn laughs, a high clear sound. The queen sets her shoulders and lifts her chin.

The djinn's laughter fades and she regards the queen with new eyes. "They always said you were an odd pair of rulers. Unorthodox."

"Our methods work," The queen says tightly.

"Like I said," the djinn replies. " _Odd_. Odd names too. But alright, Queen Clarke." She leans back against the rock wall. "Ask me your wish. I will grant it."

The queen chews on her lip, striking an almost childish figure in that moment. "What do you want in return?"

"I'll tell you after," the djinn says. "Go on, now. Tell me exactly what you want."

The queen glares. Both women know who has the upper hand, and the djinn is gleeful knowing she has the great queen Clarke unbalanced. But then Clarke speaks, and all ferocity and queenliness in her voice is gone.

"I just want him to be alive again," she whispers, casting a glance back to his body.

The djinn smiles coyly. " _Alive_ again, you say?"

Clarke nods hesitantly.

"Granted."

There's a silence. Clarke waits. Then: "Nothing's happening."

"I granted your wish."

The queen rips the cloth off the King's upper half again, placing two fingers to his throat. She wheels back to the djinn. "He's still dead!" she snarls. "Stop toying with me— You're my subject and I order you to grant my wish!"

"Again," the djinn insists, the twinkle in her eye growing, "I did." At Clarke's speechlessness, the djinn apparently feels sympathetic enough to explain. "If you wanted someone to reanimate a dead corpse, you should've asked a necromancer. I only work with life, and souls, and hearts."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the king _will_ be alive again," the djinn replies. "Just not right now. Reborn, if you will. In another life, in another time, perhaps. That is something I do not control."

The queen gapes, horrified at how she's been tricked.

The djinn leans forward. "I granted your wish, Your Highness. Now you must grant mine."

Clarke regains her earlier ferocity, snarling, "I'll do _no such thing_ —"

The djinn tsks and waggles a finger in the furious queen's direction. "But you haven't heard it yet. What I want is to see _you_ live again, too."

That stops the queen short. "Me?"

"You," the djinn confirms with a smirk. "A love story like yours, it would be a shame to let it end here. I want to see the both of you alive again." She makes a face. "Being in _love_. Getting married. Having babies. All those things you common folk would die for, I suppose." She looks sharply at the queen. "Isn't that what you want? A chance at a life with him again?"

"Supposing I believe you, which I don't by the way," Clarke hisses, "what on earth could you possibly get out of that?"

The djinn smiles again, a secretive one, and taps her long, spidery fingers against her pointed chin. "Hmm. That remains to be seen, doesn't it?" She turns away, showing Clarke her back cloaked in dark fabric. "Our business is concluded. You may leave now."

"Our business is _not—_ "

"You may leave now," The djinn repeats. This time, there is a dangerous note to her voice.

The queen grinds her teeth, tears escaping her eyes, but finally she accepts that there is nothing else that can be achieved here. Slowly, she turns to pick up the handles of the cart holding her beloved, ready to take him back after this fruitless endeavor. It almost makes the djinn take pity just as the queen is turning her back.

"Here is what I'll say, my queen—" the djinn waves a hand, and it feels like a spell being cast as well as a dismissal— "you and him will live again by my hand. But whether you fall in love again is _entirely_ up to you."

The queen doesn't respond. She walks warily out of the cave with her husband's body, and back to their— her— kingdom. She knows she shouldn't have let herself believe in magic, not even out of desperation. There's no such thing.

So she buries Bellamy. And then, as hard as it is, she moves on. She rules her kingdom. She raises their children. One day long after, she dies too.

And that is where their story begins.

 _._

 _To the well-organized mind, death is but the next great adventure._ — J.K. Rowling

— 1186: CRUSADER KINGDOM OF JERUSALEM —

.

Her name is Claraha.

She's a respected leader, a warrior in the military here in Jerusalem. It's practically unheard of to be a woman with this kind of power, but she gets what she wants, and she's respected for it. It helps that she's also a princess. Her father, Guy, dotes on her and is the one who let her train along with her brother in the first place; her stepmother, Sibylla, tends to ignore her. Claraha is completely fine with that, seeing as it's mutual.

Claraha's good at her jobs, if only because she wants to make her father proud. But sometimes she just wants to… _unwind_.

She doesn't discriminate— she takes both men and women to bed, and enjoys them all. But with sex comes the inevitable complications, complications that she simply doesn't have time for in her busy life.

After her latest enraged lover tries to stab her with the silver knife on her breakfast plate, she decides, while rolling his limp body off the steps to her bed with one foot, that it's time to consider the possibility of escorts. Sometimes she just wants a good fuck, after all.

That's how she meets him.

He's not the first escort she's called on before, so she's relaxed, lounging in her bed in nothing but a robe, when the polite knock comes at the door.

"Enter," she says, reaching for another grape from her dish.

There's a pause, and then the door opens. A man steps inside. And he's pretty.

Not to say that she hasn't met (and slept with) many pretty people in her young life, but he's pretty in a curious way. With a combination of features that intrigues her. Smooth tan skin, hair black and rough textured yet curling adorably at his ears, lips soft in shape yet utterly kissable, and eyes that are wide and brown like a doe's, except they smoulder when she stands and sheds her robe without ceremony.

"You're late," she tells him. He doesn't say anything. She pops one last grape into her mouth, pushes the dish aside and beckons with her hand. "Come over here."

He's remarkably shy for an escort, she decides when he stalks forward to stand in front of her, half a head taller than she.

"Take off your clothes," she tells him without preamble. She's not interested in dilly-dallying, and she's sure the escorts appreciate that too. He smiles and does as told.

He won't look at her below the chin, but she takes the opportunity to give him a thorough once-over. He's well built, attractive in every way, and she can't help but lick her lips as desire coils in her lower stomach, white-hot.

"Touch me," she says, a little more breathy than she intended, and takes his large hands to place them on her breasts.

He takes the hint, squeezing and leaning forward to mouth at her jaw. She tilts her head back to grant him better access and he does not waste the invitation.

"Take me to bed," she gasps, and he does not waste that one either.

—

There are three things this escort never does, every time she calls on him.

He never finishes inside her, always pulls out first while she's shaking from her own climax.

He never kisses her on the lips.

And he never, ever says a word.

She's rather sure the first two are rules of escorts, but the last? Her other escorts _say_ things. Mostly filthy things in her ear, or at least theatric moans for her benefit.

Not him. He simply breathes, sometimes quiet and even, sometimes harsh and loud. And when she suspects he's close to letting anything else out, he bites down on her skin. Which happens a lot when they're fucking.

So one day, after he's carried out the order "Eat me," and she's boneless, staring up at the ceiling, she gives one more.

"Say something."

He pauses his way in kissing his way up her belly, and all she can see is the top of his head as it rests against her stomach for a moment. She reaches a hand down to tug impatiently at one of his curls. She touches it a lot; she loves those curls. Like all of him, they are a study in contrast, just the right amount of scrape against her inner thighs and just the right amount of silk in between her fingers.

He lifts his head to look at her, eyes solemn. And then he speaks.

"What do you want me to say?"

She falls in love with his voice at that very moment. It's deep and deliciously sweet in a rough sort of way, registering in her ears in a way that has her inner walls clenching on nothing despite the fact that she just came. She wants to hear it again. "You never say a word," she replies steadily, not betraying her inner thoughts. "So say anything."

He considers her for a moment before a small smile curls over his lips. "Anything," he parrots.

She thinks she falls in love in that moment— not with any part of his body, or physical aspect— but with _him_.

That will trouble her later, but for now she just laughs at his stupid joke, and then is immediately surprised that she laughed. "Why don't you tell me your name?"

He blinks, apparently surprised. "You want to know my name?"

He makes it sound like a big thing, and she feels an unwanted blush rise to her cheeks. She shrugs her shoulders nonchalantly. "Maybe I want a name to say in bed."

He smiles wickedly at that and resumes his task, placing butterfly kisses on her breasts, then up to her neck. "Bee," he replies against her skin. "They call me Bee."

"Bee," she tastes the word. It's pretty, just like the rest of him. She reaches around his jaw and tilts his face up. He lets her, and when she begins to nose at his throat— he's got a long, elegant throat, she could kiss it all day— he sighs, the sound only slightly audible.

She pauses in her ministrations to say, "You can make noise from now on. I like it."

He nods slowly, then blinks and adds, "Okay."

"But you don't have to if you don't want to," she can't help but add. "Only if you want."

One of his hands reaches down to squeeze her hips, making her squeal a bit from being startled. "Don't worry. I've got a lot of things to say." He smiles slowly, one that makes her heart flip-flop. "If you want to hear them."

—

She calls for him, again and again. Turns out he _does_ have a lot to say, when asked. He murmurs sinful praise into her ear in his deep rumbling voice gone even rougher with lust. But that isn't the best part.

Today, he walks in and she's already naked, sliding off her bed to meet him halfway.

He drops down to his knees to ask, "How was your day?" against her hipbone.

She sighs, bracing herself on his wide shoulders, and says, "Do you know how many fools I've had to deal with in court today?"

He hums as if in sympathy, the vibration against her thigh spreading to her core, but she yanks him back up because she likes to just look at him sometimes. "Your stepmother again?" he asks, for all the world looking serious but she can tell there's amusement glittering in his dark eyes.

"Sibylla spends all her time bossing my father around," Claraha complains. "And telling him what to do with me. Apparently I'm a _disgrace_." Her mouth twists at how the queen had voiced that thought while she was still in the room, clearly intending for her stepdaughter to hear.

He tuts soothingly, running his hands up and down her hips.

"How was _your_ day?" she asks, because she's curious, she's _always_ curious about this man. As she speaks, she slides her hands under his shirt, raking up his back, and she feels his muscles flinch under her fingers.

She retracts her hands right away in concern, but any brief expression of pain has flitted away from his features. He reaches for her again, but she stops him.

"What's wrong?" she asks, searching his eyes.

"Nothing," he replies, but she's not having it. She tugs at his shirt, and he lets her pull it off his head, mistaking it as her wanting to get a move on. But she places a hand on his chest and looks at him.

He's got bruises.

They're not love marks— they're large, ugly dark blossoms spreading over his sides. She gestures for him to turn around.

He looks at her but doesn't do it. It's the first time he's not done something she asked. She frowns at him and walks around him herself.

She gasps at the bruising that continues around his back too. "What happened to you?" she tries to say calmly.

"It's nothing," he tells her, wheeling around. His expression is stony.

"It's _not_ nothing!" she nearly shrieks, feeling tears come to her eyes. He's hurt, and good people shouldn't get hurt.

He looks taken aback. "I've seen you with bruises before, too," he tells her. "Sometimes more."

"I'm a warrior," she snarls. "I'm a soldier. Of course I get injuries." She passes a hand over his side. "You're not supposed to get them."

A muscle clenches in his jaw. "It happens sometimes, in my line of work."

"It shouldn't," she snaps at him. "Escorts aren't to be hurt this badly in their line of work. Tell me who did this. I will have them flogged."

"I can't." When she glares, he says quietly, "Discretion is part of my work, you know." He raises an eyebrow meaningfully at her.

Touche. She folds her arms and purses her lips. "Then tell me what happened."

"They got rough," he replies shortly. "Now, do you want to fuck, or should I leave?"

There's a heavy pause. It's the closest to fighting the two of them have ever gotten. He's breathing a little hard, but there's a frantic sort of anger lying low in his eyes. He's distressed from what happened to him, somewhere deep inside where he can't even admit to himself.

The softer part of her opens up. "I don't want you to leave," she says softly, and he nods once, jaw clenching again before he goes to drop to his knees again. She stops him, and he looks at her with confusion. "I also don't want to fuck."

His lips part but he says nothing.

"Not when you're this hurt." He's still staring at her oddly, so she quickly adds, "I'll still have you paid, I'm just saying you should stay a while. I just… you came all this way, didn't you?"

A half smile plays on his lips. "I don't live that far."

She almost asks how far exactly he lives and only barely stops herself. She's recently been seized with this desire to… to know him. To know where he lives, to know what his life is like, outside of the body that he sells for a living. She wants to take his hand and go with him. She wants to meet his friends, to walk down the streets of Jerusalem with him and wander from vendor to vendor, finding out what kinds of foods he likes to eat. She wants to find out if his jet-black hair will look browner in the sunlight, or if it'll stay just as dark as it always is in the low light of her bed chambers. She wants to know how much messier it might look when he wakes up in the morning.

Claraha wants to know _everything_ about Bee. The prospect is both frightening and thrilling.

But he's standing in front of her, waiting for an answer. His head is tilted and his eyes are keen on her, waiting for an order. An order that he will have no choice but to obey, because— as she suddenly has to remind herself forcefully— he is a _prostitute_. He doesn't really want to be here. He doesn't want to know her. He only wants to make money to live on, and she's what he puts up with to earn it.

There's suddenly a lump in her throat. She swallows it down. "Then you can leave if you like," she finds herself saying. "Go home. Get some rest. And I'll make sure you will still be paid for tonight."

He considers that. Considers her for a long moment, and she meets his gaze straight on, letting nothing slip from her expression. Finally he reaches around her to pick up his shirt that was discarded a few minutes earlier from the bed.

She lets out a breath as he pulls it on, and grabs a robe of her own from the drawer to put on. Despite herself, she's feeling real disappointment in her stomach, and she furiously berates herself for her foolishness. Silly of her, to start using escorts to satisfy her desires in order to avoid complications, and here she is having fallen into the same trap. Well, she can't have Bee. He is _not_ hers to have. He is only his own. He is not hers. He is _not—_

"Is that backgammon?" Bee asks suddenly, cutting off her thoughts.

She follows his gaze to the small table against the wall, and the gameboard still lying on it. "Oh," she mutters, a little wildly, "yes." She'd been playing it with her brother earlier in the week, but they'd left the game halfway through.

"Haven't played that in ages," he remarks, and it takes her a moment to register that.

She looks up at him, and there's an unassuming expression on his face, one she can't derive much from. So she has to draw her own conclusions. "Do you…" she ventures, "would you like to play?"

It's apparently the right question to ask, because his eyes warm. He smiles.

(She melts.)

—

She wakes the next morning with Bee next to her. They're sprawled on the bed like this is perfectly ordinary, like two friends who had a little too much to drink. As soon as she registers this she has a mini panic attack as she scrambles to remember the night before.

It was… nice. He was a clever player, had her evenly matched for the game they played. But she was cunning enough to beat him. He didn't seem to mind.

And they had played slowly, talking in between, passing a bottle of wine back and forth. He'd let her touch him, eventually. He kept wincing when he stretched his shoulder and she offered to massage his upper back. After a bit of denying, he finally accepted the help, and she gladly worked out some of the kinks there, and… she thinks that must be when they fell asleep.

He stirs beside her right when Claraha's door bursts open and one of her servants walks in. "Princess— oh!" she exclaims in surprise, having spotted Bee's dark head lifting from the pillow. "My apologies. I— I shall return later."

The door clangs shut only a few seconds after it was opened.

Claraha stares at the ceiling, willing it to swallow her whole. She has never had an escort stay the night. Her ladies in waiting will be in a tizzy thinking she has a new lover.

"Princess 'Oh', huh," Bee says mildly from beside her. His voice is even rougher with sleep. "I could have sworn your name was Claraha."

It's the first time he's said her real name out loud, and the fact that he's apparently comfortable enough to say it so informally makes her glow inside. She doesn't let it show.

"Suits you, though," he says, and she rubs at her eyes to see that his hair looks just as adorably rumpled in the morning as she would've imagined.

"And _your_ name suits _you_ ," she retorts, swinging her legs out of bed. "Always buzzing around in my ear, driving me crazy, like a bee."

He props himself on one elbow, watching her. "You pay me to." His voice is pitched lower, a little playful, but she feels like someone's thrown a bucket of ice water over her.

"I do," she says tersely, wrenching away the curtain from the window to let a breeze in. She turns again to see him watching her. "I have a lot to do today. The Ayyubid army's been watching our borders for days. We have to send in some troops to scare them off."

He takes the hint, slowly pushing out of her bed and padding over to the door. "Sorry for overstaying my welcome."

His tone is, once again, mild, but she feels like she must say something. "You didn't," she tells him as he's opening the door. "You— you're always welcome here."

He stares at her for another long moment, one that has her heart thumping far too hard in her chest, and then he simply nods. "Have a good day, Princess."

He's gone before she can return the sentiment, and she's left with the bitter taste of missing him on her tongue.

—

The Ayyubid troops outside the walls of Jerusalem are harder to get rid of this time. They're getting bolder, and murmurs of a new ruler— Saladin— are starting to reach her ears. She's concerned, and delivers reports of the conflict to her father before she finally goes back to her chambers, groaning as she collapses on her bed.

She was slashed in the leg in the middle of this trip, and try as she might to suppress it, she couldn't help but limp through the streets. She felt people's eyes on her, their murmurs following her, and she hates it. As a woman, she already faces incredulity about her fitness as a warrior. She doesn't need more wood added to the fire.

In any case, she has her leg binded as best as possible, and then there's a knock at her door.

"Enter," she says, turning her face towards the door.

The door swings open, and it's him.

She scrambles up, immediately self conscious despite herself. She's still got dirt on her face, she's sure of it— her hair is knotted and grimy in its braid, and— why is she even concerned? She shakes herself. "What are you doing here?"

He wrings his hands together, eyes on her bandaged leg. "I heard the princess had been hurt in battle."

"Oh," she manages in a small voice. "Well, I'm fine." There's a silence. He's still standing at the door. "I didn't call for you."

"No," he agrees.

"So why did my servants let you in?"

"They assumed you _did_ call for me," he replies. She blushes. It may be the lighting, but she thinks his cheeks may be a little red at the moment too.

"But why did you come?" she asks, suspicious.

In a few strides he's at the foot of her bed, leaning over her. "Thought you could use some cheering up," he says, and she sucks in a breath at his deep voice washing over her, at least until he reaches into a satchel she hadn't noticed he was wearing and produces a large bunch of purple grapes.

Her jaw drops open. "Grapes!" she exclaims with glee, reaching for them immediately, and he laughs softly.

She pops a few into her mouth, munching happily and distracted enough that she doesn't notice he's kneeled at the foot of the bed until he spreads her legs apart. She squeaks; her thin robe spreads over her knees, doing nothing to prevent his breath from fanning over the most sensitive part of her. "This okay?" he asks, eyes flicking up.

She giggles a little shakily at the understatement. "I eat grapes and you eat me, is that what tonight is about?"

"We both deserve something sweet," he replies with a wicked smile, a smile that he then presses between her legs, and she's lost to the world for a good while.

At the end of it he crawls up her body (pausing a moment to lay a delicate kiss to the bandage wrapped around her thigh) and plucks a grape from the abandoned bowl sitting on the bed next to her lazily curled hand, puts it in his mouth and winks at her.

She blinks and frowns at him. He's always so composed, so pleased. She wants to undo him the same way he does so effortlessly to her. With that in mind, she grabs him round the waist and flips them over so she's straddling him.

"You have some nerve, coming to me without being asked," she tells him, trying to sound cross. "Are you expecting to be paid for something I didn't ask for?"

"Course not," he replies. "Putting you in a better mood was a service to the kingdom, not you. Can't have the princess sulking around during diplomatic meetings."

She laughs, delighted at his feistiness, because it means he feels that comfortable around her now. "You're being paid, you cheeky bastard. But I'm not done with you yet."

His dark eyes sparkle in the low light of her room, beautiful as ever. He lets her undress him, but when she starts to slide down his body he grabs her suddenly around the arms. "What are you doing?" His voice is tight.

She spits into her palm and reaches between them to wrap a hand around his warm length, pumping him a few times up and down slowly. "Returning the favour."

His hips jerk up, and his pupils are blown wide as he looks at her, licking his lips. "You— you don't have to—" she watches him as he flounders until he settles on, "this is about _you_."

She wishes it wasn't. She wishes it was about both of them. But she knows he won't like that, so selfishly she tells a half-truth. "And I _like_ doing this. Will you let me?"

He stares down at her, how she presses her lips against his hipbone and bats her eyes at him, and rubs a hand over his face vigorously and mutters a curse under his breath.

"Only if you want to," she adds. A thought occurs to her, a horrible one that she's never once considered. "Do you have a lover?" It feels— wrong, to do this to him, if he does.

"No," he replies without hesitation behind his hand, and her heart settles back in her chest.

"So do you want me to?"

He hesitates, and then he simply nods, face not visible behind his hand. Without further ado she wraps her mouth around him.

He gasps _loud_ and she lets go for a moment, a shocking realization coming to her. "No one's ever done this to you before, have they?"

He finally looks at her, definitely with a flush on his cheeks now. He shakes his head, and she feels something in her stomach swoop. He's only used his body as something to give to others— he's never had this.

"Tell me what you like," she says, and with renewed determination, she takes him in her mouth again.

He gasps again immediately, says with a huff of laughter mixed with a groan, "I like _that_ ," so she inwardly smiles and listens to the sounds he makes, the way he twitches under her. His hands thread into her hair, yanking almost painfully hard at one point, and then trailing down to the back of her neck simply to caress her skin, making her shiver.

He tries to push her away when he's close, but she doesn't let him, keeping her mouth on him to the very end, feeling his body relax around her. And when he lies back, spent, she crawls back up his body and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. "How was that?"

He's breathing hard, eyes half lidded; he doesn't seem capable of responding, to her immense satisfaction. His lips are red and parted. She'd like nothing better than to kiss them.

She really, really needs to stop thinking that. But she chooses to ignore the knot in her stomach for now.

—

She's been in a foul mood as of late, contrary to Bee's intentions the other night. And she's aware it has everything to do with him. Ever since he left he left that night she's been regretting doing that to him. Not because she didn't enjoy it, because she most definitely did. No, she regrets it because of the feelings that flooded forth unexpectedly in the aftermath. She's opened a door she doesn't know how to close.

"Princess," says one of her ladies in waiting mildly after she's snapped at her for the fifth time that night. "If I may be so bold?"

Claraha yanks a comb through her hair. "I've never been able to stop you."

"You seem tense," the lady says cautiously.

"Oh, you've noticed?"

"Shall I call an escort?"

Claraha mulls it over. It would be nice to get some stress relief after all this. But then her servant goes on, slightly knowing.

"Shall I call the man with the black hair?"

Claraha looks up sharply. The lady shrinks back.

"I'm sorry if I overstep—"

"You did," Claraha says tightly. She sets down her comb. It's time to end this.

—

She stops calling for Bee after that. As much as it hurts her to do so, she knows this is the best thing to do. She tries to get on with her responsibilities, but somehow, he keeps worming his way into her thoughts. When something eyeroll-inducing happens in court, she makes note to tell Bee later, only to remember she won't have the opportunity; she finds herself looking forward to the evening to have his arms around her, only to remember he won't be there. She's been reliant on him for months.

It doesn't occur to her that he's been reliant on her, too, until he shows up at her door in the middle of the night, looking concerned.

When she opens it, and sees him standing there, it hits her that she's been a very steady, comfortable source of income for him. And she suddenly feels guilty. Maybe she does owe him an explanation after all.

He shakes her out of her thoughts, leaning against the door. "Your servants let me in." He sounds almost apologetic. She must have quite an expression on her face. Hastily, she rearranges her features into neutrality.

"Why are you here?"

"They say you haven't asked for me in weeks."

"No, I haven't," she replies, staring down at her toes. It's easier that way.

A pause.

"Alright," he says, and moves to back away. "I just wanted to hear it from you." Her confusion makes her look up, and he elaborates. "I thought you might've been in trouble because of me."

"Oh," she laughs, realizing. "No, my family didn't find out I was using escorts and get mad. And if they did, I'd have to point out the mysterious stream of strange men that enter Sibylla's chambers on a regular basis." He relaxes, lips twitching, and she adds, "And even if they were, what good would it do for them to find you here again?"

"It's the middle of the night," he points out. "They wouldn't." There's mischief dancing in his eyes, and against their will she feels her lips curling up.

Then she internally stops herself. What is she doing? The smile drops off her face and she chooses her next words carefully, while staring at the ground. "Bee, I won't be seeing you anymore."

There's a heavy pause. She feels his stare on her.

Then he speaks, carefully, slowly: "Did I do something to displease you?"

Her gut clenches at the sound of his voice. She's going to miss that smooth baritone, the way it skips down her spine and makes her feel warm all over. But right now, knowing it's the last time, she only feels cold. She rubs vigorously at her arms. "Of course not."

Another pause, turning awkward when she offers no explanation.

"You have a new lover?" he asks, and her eyes shoot up at that to meet his.

He backtracks immediately, turning away, but not before she sees something— a flash of hurt? "Sorry. That's not my place to ask." He takes a step back, shaking his head. "Good night, princess."

"Wait," she cries, before he can touch the door. He stops. She scrambles for something to say. "I'll tell you why."

He turns to face her then, taking a deep breath. "You don't have to—"

"You're the only escort I ask for," she blurts out. "The only _person_ I've been seeing for months."

A beat. His eyes widen. There. It's out now, and she fears it was a mistake, but then:

"You're the only customer I like seeing," he tells her softly.

She feels rather like she's falling through the floor. They stare at each other for a long moment. Claraha barely dares to breathe, because: she's _not_ the only one who feels this way, _he_ enjoys her company too.

She can't stop herself from saying, "Really?" She sounds childish, hopeful, like a little girl who's been fancying someone. That's what he's reduced her to.

He taps his long fingers against the wood of her door. "Yes," he admits, and then slowly, as if just waking up from a dream, he says, "but… you're a princess. I'm not— "

"I don't care," she cuts him off immediately, not liking his tone of realization.

"I can't give you anything."

She's ready for that. "And I don't _need_ anything." She dismisses his thought. "Anything, except you."

He swallows, and his eyes are fixed on her now unwavering, as if she might disappear. "They won't let us." His voice is barely a whisper.

"No one _lets_ me do anything," she replies. "How do you think I became a soldier? I do whatever I please."

He studies her a moment longer, and then his face breaks into a wide smile. "That's true."

Another moment, and he's still standing at the door, so she says hesitatingly, "So… where does that leave us?" She's not really sure what to do at this point. She's had lovers before this, but— a real relationship? She feels like it's been forever. She doesn't know the protocol. Especially not with him.

"I don't want your money. I won't be your escort anymore," he replies. She panics before he goes on. "But I'll come see you anyway."

Her heart soars. She doesn't know how to express what she's feeling except striding over to him, putting her hand on his cheek and leaning up to kiss him.

It doesn't land on his lips— he turns his face at the last second so she ends up kissing his jaw instead. She makes a noise, trying to turn his face back, but he lays one finger on her lips. There's a twinkle in his eye. "I can't kiss a woman I'm not betrothed to. Wouldn't be right."

She laughs in his face, because she's so desperate for him— he's had his mouth on far more intimate places of her body, but _now_ he's decided to become old fashioned? And yet, despite herself, she's touched. "Didn't know prostitutes could be so traditional."

"Oh, I'm _very_ traditional," he replies seriously. "Prostitution's been around a long time. Practically a tradition itself."

She concedes the point. "Okay, fine," she says, stepping back after a moment. "You won't kiss me until we're betrothed. Plan to correct that soon?"

His mouth forms a small, sly smile again and instead of answering he reopens the door. "Good night, princess."

She sighs in exasperation, but the feeling growing steadily in her heart is recognizable for what it is now— love. "Goodnight, Bee."

—

"Look, I'm going to start by saying I would rather stay out of your sex life," Jordan, her brother, starts while they're lounging around sharpening their swords on the palace's front steps. Or at least, he is. She's just doing it to pass the time, waiting for Bee after he sent her a message to be ready at noon. Finally, she's going to go somewhere with him— somewhere that's not her bedroom. She can't wait.

She wrinkles her nose at her brother's remark, in the meanwhile. "Then please, don't trouble yourself."

She's ignored, as always. "Is it true what they say, that you're seeing someone?"

" _You'll_ be seeing stars if you continue with this line of questioning," she retorts. Gossip spreads too fast around here. Especially, she thinks, because she's a woman. No one ever asks about Jordan's lovers. It sets her blood alight all over again. She sheathes her sword a little too viciously and stands up.

"Where are you going?"

"Out," she says shortly. "With my _lover_. Problem?"

Jordan's flabbergasted. "You can't just—" She gives him a flat stare and he looks back down at his sword with a rueful grin, but apparently can't help one last jab. "Father's going to kill you if he finds out. I doubt your lover is royalty."

She ignores the twisting in her gut, but she reminds herself that neither King Guy of Lusignan nor Queen Sibylla have ever been able to deter her from her goals. "I do what I want," she replies loftily, spotting Bee's curly hair in the crowd just beyond the palace gate. She throws her sword to the side, wraps her scarf around her head and tucks in her hair as Jordan watches. She's wearing ordinary clothes, and with her hair out of sight, she should blend right in.

"I know," Jordan says, and she thinks she might detect a glimmer of admiration as she stands up. "I just hope it doesn't come back to bite you later, sister."

She walks away without answering, silently agreeing with the sentiment.

—

Bee's waiting for her just outside the gate, and her suspicions are proved to be right— his hair looks just as black even in the sun. But his eyes are set alight in a new dimension in the light, to a warm caramel. And freckles— how had she never noticed he had _freckles_?

He offers her his hand. "I want to show you something."

She takes it without hesitation.

He leads her down the hustling streets of Jerusalem, through winding alleys and throngs of people, until they get to a hut that's set low into the ground, so they have to take a few steps down a stairwell to get inside. It takes a few moments for her to adjust to the cool darkness inside, and then she registers the loud clanging.

"A blacksmith's shop," she breathes, looking around. The blacksmith currently hitting his hammer against a bent, silver piece at the work table looks up and shouts a friendly greeting to Bee before returning to his work. There's the heavy smell of molten metal in the air, and it's now that she notices the dark smudging on his hands that's transferred over to hers. "You're— you're learning how to—?"

He nods, eyes practically glowing. "I'm just an apprentice right now, but soon I'll be making money."

It takes her a moment to register what that means. "Bee…" she breathes, and shakes her head firmly. "You don't have to change your line of work for me. I understand what your job is, I know it's not personal. What you do doesn't change how I feel about you. You don't have to do this."

He watches her deliver this earnest speech with the trace of a smile upon his lips. "I thought you'd say that," he tells her, and tugs her closer to whisper against the top of her scarfed head, "And I know. But I _wanted_ to."

He ends up showing her his tools in his work area— she's not the best listener ("Don't touch that!" he says exasperatedly several times) but it's fun nonetheless. She's so caught up in it that she is actually caught off guard when they're kidnapped.

—

When she comes to blearily, she immediately tries to stand, only to be tugged harshly down by chains biting into her wrists, bound behind her back. There's a dull pain pulsing at the back of her head, where her kidnapper took a club to it—

 _Bee_! She thinks suddenly, and whips her head around to look at her surroundings.

It's a small, cramped space with stoned walls. If she had to guess, an underground bunker. She sees with shock that Jordan is chained beside her, one eye blackened and swollen shut, and on her other side her father, who's watching her with fearful eyes. And Bee… he's chained next to her father, silent and still and looking for all the world unafraid. He must sense her watching him, because his eyes shift to meet hers, and then back to their captors in front of them.

Claraha follows his gaze to the men pacing in front of them.

"Welcome, royal family," one sneers. He's holding his sword loosely in his hand, and as he speaks he brings it up to touch the tip to her father's throat.

They're Saladin's soldiers, she realizes. So, so careless of them— the Ayyubid army has already infiltrated the city somehow, right under their noses.

"Saladin gave us orders," their captor continues. "He is merciful. A king does not kill another king." He drags the tip of the sword away from Claraha's father's throat. "Well, we might have to kill Queen Sibylla. She's still giving us trouble, evading capture. But the rest of you, you will be taken prisoner for now. And we will take Jerusalem for Saladin."

"Wait," one of the other men says slowly. "We have captured the three of them, but who is the spare?"

It feels like everyone's heads swivel to Bee in that moment. He looks completely calm at the attention.

"When we captured Claraha we assumed he was Jordan," their captor muses. "But then we found Jordan somewhere else. So who are you?" he asks. Guy looks like he's wondering the same thing, glancing between Bee and Claraha with a suspicious look on his face. She rolls her eyes internally. He's right to be suspicious in this case, but still.

"I'm no one," Bee replies.

Their captor stares hard at him. Bee holds the stare unblinkingly. "I don't like mysteries. He might be one of their soldiers. Kill him just in case— we really only need the King alive."

"Wait!" Claraha yelps, trying to rise again, at the same time that Jordan pipes up, fast.

"He is my sister's lover, that's all," Jordan says. The soldiers look over Bee, frowning. Jordan continues, "He's a commoner from the city. Look at him. He's not a warrior, he's got no scars. He's soft." Not really, she thinks in some distant part of her mind. She knows that on a very intimate level. "He's not one of us."

"The lover of the infamous warrior princess?" They smile in something of a condescending way at Claraha, and she bristles through her fear. " _Women_. Of course."

They seem to believe it, and although their dismissal of her makes her furious, she's more than willing to let it go if it gets Bee out of here alive.

Their captor waves a hand. "Release him. We do not harm innocents." As he speaks, Bee is tugged to his feet, and he shoots Claraha a panicked look.

She feels only relieved that Bee will be spared, so she's not prepared when he surges forward, breaking free from his captors momentarily to kiss her.

She freezes up when their lips come into contact. His mouth is warm, prying on hers to get it to open. When it does, he thrusts his tongue into her mouth without ceremony. It's not exactly the first kiss she might have asked for, especially when his tongue curls against her teeth, and she feels something small, metallic and hard get pressed against the roof of her mouth.

She barely has a moment to register he's slipped her something before he's wrenched away and they all laugh. Claraha feels around in her mouth, for the small, toothpick sized piece of metal, and she realizes it's something of a lockpick. He must have somehow picked it up in the workshop while they were being captured.

"Can't blame him for wanting to give his woman a kiss goodbye," one of Saladin's soldiers is saying with amusement as they pull him away. She'd almost be mad again, but then her lips burn all at once, as if heat-seared by Bee's.

They burn like agony for just a moment, and then a flash of bright white light explodes behind her eyelids when she blinks. She opens her eyes and finds herself staring at Bee.

He's staring back, lips parted.

But he's not Bee. He's… He's Bellamy. And Bellamy is _alive_.

She remembers it all.

And if his expression is anything to go by right now, so does he.

The _djinn_ , Claraha— Clarke— thinks dazedly. The djinn wasn't lying, and she gave them another life just like she said she would. Where Bellamy is alive again, warm and breathing and so full of vitality it's hard to reconcile the image of him now with that of his body when Clarke had buried him in her first life. They have another chance.

Clarke doesn't plan to waste it.

So while Bellamy's being escorted out of the dark room, she twists her head over her shoulder, arches her back, and spits the lockpick into her bound hands. She deftly catches it— she sees Jordan stare at her curiously, and then his eyes widen when she twists her wrist to show him the gleaming metal of it. She spends the next few minutes twisting at the locks.

"Maybe we should kill them," one of the Ayyubid soldiers comments. "Saladin only specified to keep the king alive." The rest of them turn towards Clarke and her family as if considering.

Guy finally speaks, and although his voice trembles with an undercurrent of fear, there is undeniable steel there as well. "Don't you dare touch my children."

As one snarls back, "You'd be wise to hold your tongue, or we'll deliver you to Saladin _barely_ alive," Clarke looks at their captors— four of them, and wonders if she can take them.

Well there's only one way to find out. She takes a deep breath, and yanks her hands out of the loosened shackles.

Their captors aren't ready. She throws the pick at Jordan, hoping he can work fast, and sidekicks one of them hard, so hard that he stumbles into another and they both fly backwards. Then she winds her chains around her wrists and uses it to whip around one's ankle, who's charging at her, rendering him out of commision for a moment. The last punches her across the face, and she tastes blood in her mouth before she wheels around to engage him.

She holds them off until Jordan can release himself and, together, they do away with the soldiers, relieving them of their weapons in the process.

At the end of it, she and her family are standing again, and Clarke grabs the last survivor of Saladin's group by the scruff of their neck, feeling blood running down from a cut on her forehead and dripping onto her own lips. "Listen closely," she growls, shaking him. "I'm only keeping you alive for one reason."

He quails, and she revels in it.

She tows him out and says, "You can tell Saladin he's got his war. Let him try and take Jerusalem." She bares her teeth, stained with blood. "Let him _try_."

—

She can't find Bee after, but after a bout of anxiety she figures he fled. In any case, she's flooded with preparations for war with her family— and Sibylla, who primly enters back into the palace as if nothing has happened— for the rest of the day, anyway. She decides to send for him at night. She can explain everything to him then, the deal she'd made with a djinn in a previous lifetime. That sounds difficult to explain, now that she thinks about it— but she'd made her bed.

She figures later that should have been the hint right there— the fact that everything seemed like it would be okay.

She's waiting for Bellamy to come while sitting in her bedroom. He's late. She'd sent a messenger to find him— why is he late? There's a knock on the door and when she stands, it's Jordan there instead.

His eyes are wide and grave. "Claraha."

The way he says her name makes ice spread through her veins. And she knows, somehow. Some part of her knows even before he tells her, quietly, that Bee was found dead in the streets of Jerusalem.

She stands still while he relays it, and when he adds, "They found this in his hand," she looks down stiffly to see a copper ring, clumsily bent into shape and looped through a black piece of string like a necklace.

She takes it without blinking, without breathing. "I want to see his body," she announces.

"Clar—"

" _I want to see his body_ ," she shrieks at him, and he jumps. "Right _now_."

Jordan knows better to argue when she's like this, and a half hour later they bring his body into the palace grounds. Some attempt has been made to clean him, probably Jordan's work, but there's still a wound dug deep in his chest where a knife was buried, still a red stain blossomed across his white shirt.

She pushes past Jordan's arms where he's trying to hold her back, trying to say something in her ear. She doesn't hear him. She thinks in that moment the only thing she would be able to hear is the sound of Bee's— _Bellamy's—_ breathing.

So she hears nothing.

She skids to his side, strokes his hair back. His eyes are open to the sky, glittering unseeingly like glass marbles. His body is stiff in death.

"Who did this," she says, and she meant to sound calm, but instead her voice is shaking with rage.

Wisely, no one responds except for her own brother. "That's the thing," he replies softly. "No one knows. It might have been one of Saladin's soldiers, in the commotion. Or it might have been someone else. It might have been a random attack."

Clarke is silent for a long moment, staring down at his body. Again. She was given another chance at life with Bellamy, and all that came of it was another chance to mourn his death. Maybe it would be easier to accept if she at least knew why. But as it is— it's so meaningless, so _useless,_ what's happened. And it's over for them now, isn't it? She's squandered the second opportunity she could hardly dare to hope for. She wants to cry. But she can't even find the tears for that.

Instead, she hardens her gaze at Jordan. "I hope that was the case," she whispers. "Because if I find out our father, or Sibylla, or you, had anything to do with the death of my lover simply because he was of lower class and you thought you knew what was best for me, there will be hell to pay."

Jordan's lips part. "I would never do that. You know that. I just want you to be happy—"

"Save it," Clarke snaps. "All I know is that it's too much of a coincidence that our father and you learned what he looked like and then he turned up dead the same night."

Jordan sighs. "Claraha..."

Clarke has a feeling he's about to say she's being irrational, trying to find a plausible, meaningful reason for Bellamy's death, but somehow even her normally insensitive brother squashes the comment before it comes out. Clarke swipes a thumb over Bellamy's cheekbone one last time before she stands. "I want a funeral for him."

"Done."

She turns and leaves upon that answer, walking aimlessly not back into the palace but towards the gardens to be alone. She stops next to a grapevine and feels a pang in her stomach. She reaches up to finger the grapes hanging there, only to realize her hand is still in a fist. She opens it and realizes she's been clutching the necklace tightly ever since Jordan gave it to her.

She puts it around her neck, and can almost imagine _his_ warm hands there instead, his voice in her ear as he asks her to be his wife, again.

 _I would've said yes, again_ , she thinks desperately. _I would've said yes in any life_.

She wishes she had another chance to.

 _._

 _I'd know you in the dark. From a thousand miles away. There's nothing you could become that I haven't already fallen in love with._ — Rainbow Rowell

— 1223: RUSSIA —

.

His name is Belgutei.

His half-brother happens to be the Mongol emperor Genghis Khan, but to Belgutei, he's just Temujin. And when Temujin tells him, "We are taking the northmost part of Asia," Bel just raises his eyebrows.

"And?"

"And I am sending Jebe and Subutai to lead the army," Temujin says. Ah. So two of his most infamous generals. Hot-headed ones, too. "I need you to go with them, as the third general."

"To keep them in line," Belgutei finishes dryly.

The Mongol Khan barks out a laugh. "You know too much about me, Bel."

He shrugs. "Comes with the territory of being your advisor."

"My most _trusted_ advisor," Temujin says with a glimmer of respect, which is hard-earned from the Khan. "And a level-headed messenger, too. If anyone can make sure that this endeavour goes smoothly, it's you." He claps his shoulder and winks conspiratorially. "You might even get some wives out of it. I hear the women in Russia are very beautiful."

Bel rolls his eyes. When they say "wives" there's no actual marriage involved; they really mean "harem" and Bel's never had much interest in that. But his guffawing half-brother seems to think his joke is the funniest one he's ever come up with.

In any case, Belgutei goes. That's how he meets her.

—

The Battle of Kalka River is hard-won, but it is done. The Russian Prince Mstislav is unprepared for their siege, having not taken the warnings of his father seriously. A fatal mistake, Belgutei thinks, especially when at the mercy of bloodthirsty Jebe and Subutai.

Belgutei stations himself on the front lines with the rest of the troops, while the other two generals do their strategizing safely behind the army lines. And so, when the time comes, Bel is the one who captures Mstislav and the rest of the Russian princes, holding them patiently in their castle until the other two generals finish their victory preening and finally come to deal with the messy leftovers.

When Subutai walks into the throne room where Bel has the Russian princes tied, gagged and on their knees under the watchful Mongolian guard, Bel says, "About time you got your ass here."

"Shut your trap, Belgutei," Subutai says without much venom, and turns to the princes, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. "Well? Any grovelling?"

"They ask for peace," Bel answers for the princes, since he is the only one who can translate between languages. He's been talking to them before Subutai got here. "They don't want their people harmed in any way. Leave their people in peace."

"We can agree to that," Subutai says, nodding. "We have no quarrel with innocents. The Great Khan is merciful."

Belgutei nearly snorts at that but manages to smother it into a cough at the last second. Subutai looks at him oddly, and he quickly asks, "What about the princes?"

Subutai gives Mstislav and the other princes a cursory glance. "A bloodless death," he replies. "As is our custom for nobles." Bel's stomach turns but as always, he simply nods. The Russian princes look expectantly at Bel, waiting for him to translate Subutai's words, but he's thankfully saved for the moment by a commotion.

A door on the side of the hall bursts open, and two of the Mongol soldiers come through, dragging a woman and a small toddler, both sporting the same yellow hair. Bel and Subutai look over, startled.

"Generals," one of the soldiers says. "These two were found just outside the throne room."

All eyes shift to Belgutei, and he steps up to translate. "Who are you?" he asks carefully to the woman. She has very blue eyes. Pretty hair— he's rarely seen such a colour in his life. But the loathing in her eyes as she delivers a baleful glare is something he's seen far too many times.

Nonetheless, when he speaks she blinks in surprise. "You speak—" she shakes her head vigorously, getting back on track. "I _demand_ to be let go, and all the princes too."

"Not really in the position to be making demands," Bel intones while Subutai snickers in the background, "so I ask again. Who are you?"

She continues glaring at him for a heavy second before she spits, "I am the princess Klavdiya."

Belgutei blinks. This is news to him. They had only been aware of the Russian princes, no princess. "And how are you related to the royal family?"

"By marriage," she says, lifting her chin. "Marriage to Mstislav."

Oh. Everything clicks together. He glances over at the small toddler, still being held tightly by the arm. There are tears coming down his cheeks, from wide brown eyes.

Unwillingly, he softens.

"So?" Subutai asks from behind him. "Who is she?"

Bel switches language. "She's not royalty," he lies. "She and the boy are just servants. They can be set free with the rest of the castle staff."

One of the soldiers holding the princess frowns. "Are you sure, my lord?" Bel shoots him a nasty look but the man just keeps blundering on. "She wears the royal family crest. Look at the ring on her finger."

Bel and Subutai look and he's right, there's a ring on her finger that is clearly visible when the soldier forcibly holds out her hand.

Subutai sighs. "Belgutei, are you lying to protect the boy?"

Bel says nothing. He's not afraid to be caught in the lie. He's more concerned for the Princess and her son.

"Your soft spot is going to get us all killed someday, you know," the other general adds, spitefully. "One day one of our enemies will send a spy, she'll be a little girl, and you'll turn into a puddle and let her kill Temujin while you stitch her a nice little teddy bear—"

"Shut up," Belgutei snaps, patience worn thin. "We'll let her and her boy live." He nods at them decisively.

"No, we will _not_ ," Subutai argues. "She's one of the nobles."

"Then spare all the nobles. There's no reason we can't take prisoners."

Subutai tuts. "Fool. They would never have spared any of us. They would never even _have_ this conversation if they had won the battle— we'd be tortured senselessly and strung up within the hour, you realize that, don't you?" When Bel doesn't answer, he goes on. "Anyhow, we can't let her go for no reason. You know I'm right about this, and Jebe will agree. Outvoted."

Bel glares. He's sure it's an entertaining spectacle for the Russians, who have no understanding of the Mongol's language yet surely are deducing what's happening in the tense argument before them.

Subutai goes for appeasement in the face of Bel's anger. "Look," he tries. "We can't spare a princess, but her boy— we can spare him."

Bel actually toys with that possibility, but then he looks down at that little boy, and thinks about how his father is going to be killed soon. He's not sure he can take his mother away in the same night. "No." Subutai's face looks to be turning red, so Bel finally throws caution to the wind, making a spontaneous decision he will surely regret. "Hell, I'll take the princess as my wife. Spare them both."

Subutai blinks, and the rest of the Mongols stir. Bel's never taken a wife from any of the places they have conquered.

Subutai sneers. "You will go to _any_ lengths to win an argument, won't you." Bel says nothing, because he's still trying to figure out what he's just gotten himself into. Subutai jerks his head at the soldiers still holding Klavdiya and her son. "Let them go. They're Belgutei's problem now." He laughs.

"Take them to a private room," Belgutei adds shortly. He'll deal with them later.

The princess looks between all the exchanges going on and finally bursts, " _What_ is going on?"

Bel sighs. Subutai grins a big shit-eating grin. This should be fun.

—

Bel leaves the throne room before the execution of the Russian princes commences. Although it's tradition, the idea of watching them be suffocated under a gigantic wooden plate while the Mongols feast and celebrate makes his stomach turn. Not that the Russian nobles are lily white by any means, having slaughtered far too many Mongol innocents in conflicts before this— but he takes no pleasure in their deaths, unlike Jebe and Subutai. There is a reason he much prefers his advisor and diplomat title to his warlord one.

In any case, he lets one of his soldiers direct him to the locked room where Klavdiya and her son are being kept, and opens the door.

His eyes first fall on the toddler, now sleeping curled up on one of the chairs in the otherwise barren room. And then he turns his attention to _her_ , pacing around, and he takes a moment to get a good look at her. She is truly beautiful, with rosy pale skin and a curvy figure accentuated by her long, dark red gown that sweeps the floor as she walks.

But it's the confidence that he admires most, when she halts and looks him in the eye.

"Take me to my husband."

Somehow he knew those would be the first words out of her mouth. "I can't." He closes the door behind him, crosses his arms.

She stomps her foot. "Why not?"

"Because he's dead." It's not strictly true, since Mstislav is likely still barely alive at this particular moment, but he figures it's best to rip off the bandage all at once.

She gapes at him, and her blue eyes seem to turn brighter. "No. That can't be." Her voice shakes, and he pities her. At least until she lunges for the door. He grabs her arm and turns her forcibly around, pushing her up against the wall and holding her there until she stops struggling.

But then she starts crying, and that's worse.

"I'm sorry," he says without much feeling, because it's unwise to make it public knowledge how much he really feels. She surges forward again but he's got one arm across her neck and the other firmly pinning her waist to the wall.

"You're a monster," she spits at him with tears streaming down her cheeks.

He bares his teeth in a feral grin. "Maybe." Definitely. "And _you're_ lucky you're not dead with the rest of them." Her eyebrows lift. "I made sure you and your son won't be harmed."

She lifts her chin. "Am I expected to believe you saved me for noble reasons?"

It takes him a moment, but then he realizes what she expects, what she's probably heard about the Mongol warlords. He hears it in the tremble in her voice.

Bel wonders if she would believe the truth— that he saved a son from being left orphaned and that was it. Then he decides probably not, especially with what he's about to tell her. "The only way I could save you," he tells her slowly, "was to take you as my wife."

Her eyes widen, and then harden. He's fully expecting a kick to the balls, but he's not in any way prepared for her leaning forward the small distance to kiss him.

Her lips are warm and soft. Automatically, he kisses her back for a few moments— because he's a fucking idiot— and in a laughably predictable move that a warlord should really have seen coming, she raises one of her legs and stomps down, _hard_ , on his foot.

He yelps, and she presses her advantage, kicking viciously at his knee so that he falls into a crouch, and then she's producing a knife out of nowhere. Before he knows it she's standing behind him with the blade pressed to his throat and— she leans over him to look him in the eye— a bright look of satisfaction in her gaze.

He goes very still.

She's breathing hard, leaning forward to press her knife against his throat harder. He moves back a little from it. "I'm stronger than I look."

"You're _just_ as strong as you look." Bel grins sunnily despite the position he's in.

Despite herself, she seems curious. "And how do I look?"

He tips his head back to take in her yellow hair, hanging wildly around her face like spun sunlight. "Like a lioness," he replies.

She's taken aback, and he uses it to grapple the knife from her hands and, grabbing both her wrists in one hand, throws her over his shoulder none too gently the short distance to the carpet.

It's the moment she hits the ground that he feels a sharp pain in the back of his head and, when he squeezes his eyes shut at the pain, a bright flash of light behind his eyelids.

When he opens them, the woman sprawled out on the floor is looking at him with new eyes.

"Bellamy," Klavdiya whispers— but then a new word comes into his head, filling his every thought: Claraha.

And then, overpowering it all: _Clarke_.

Pieces of memory hit him once at a time, but rapidly. While he's going through it, she slowly draws herself into a sitting position, watching him stare at his hands and remember.

When he looks up, she— Clarke— has pursed her lips.

"Clarke," he says, and he has never said the word before, but it settles so right on his lips. Clarke, his queen from another life. Somehow, he just knows that whatever has happened to them, Clarke had something to do with it. Questions— dozens of them— pop up into his mind, but in the end he settles on one. His voice takes on a dangerously soft tone. "What did you _do_?"

She tilts her head up defiantly. "You died." Her chin wobbles before she sets her mouth back into line. "You died _twice_."

"And do you want to explain to me exactly how that's possible?"

She glares at him. He's being brusque, but he just doesn't get it. "I made a deal, okay? I went to the djinn that lived on that mountain. You know the one."

He scoffs. "That was a myth."

"Well, we're both sitting here, aren't we?" she retorts.

He glares at her. "You had no right to do that, Clarke. I was okay with dying. You knew that."

"Of _course_ you were okay with dying!" she shouts at him. "But I was the one who had to keep going." Her voice trembles. "The thing is, I didn't realize the cycle would keep going. I thought our second chance was our… our last one." Her eyes seem unusually bright as she touches his cheek. Her lips part, and he finds himself suddenly mesmerized, remembering from past lives how those pretty pink lips tend to fall open while she's watching him between her legs…

"So what?" he asks to distract himself from that imagery. "So is _this_ the last one?"

She licks her lips. "Maybe."

They stare at each other, digesting this information.

Bel does some soul-searching in that minute. No, he doesn't really feel like a different person now that he remembers. He feels like he got knocked in the head and had some memories jolted back into him, but not fundamentally different. He doesn't feel like he should defect from Temujin's army and run off with Clarke. He doesn't feel like he has to; in fact he still feels very much invested in this life that he's made for himself over the past thirty years he's been alive.

What he _does_ feel is the shift in his chest, the warm feeling that grows the more he looks at her. Like his soul is only slowly starting to wake up and remember hers. She's… She's his. He knows this, somehow.

She's got a funny look on her face, too, one that compels him to ask, "What?"

She opens her mouth, and then they both jump when a quiet, sleepy voice murmurs, "Mama?"

Bel and Clarke both whip their heads over to the small boy who's waking up from his slumber in the chair, yawning. And it's like a spell is broken.

Because he's suddenly remembering that's _Clarke's_ kid. Clarke's kid, with her yellow hair and the brown eyes of— he assumes— Mstislav, who is now dead from suffocation.

Well, shit.

He looks slowly back at Clarke. She's already staring at him. There's a very cold look in her eyes.

"You killed my husband," she says quietly. She says it like she's just realizing it, just associating this act with Bellamy, her past lover, not just Belgutei.

He for some reason feels the need to defend himself. "I did _not_ kill him. I wasn't even part of that."

"I want to see him," she says, eyes very bright again, and he feels terrible.

"I told you, he's—"

"I want to see his body," she cuts him off harshly.

He swears quietly and runs a hand over his face.

—

He knows he's lost her the moment he shows her the body.

He takes her outside the castle in the horse stables, where all the nobles' bodies have been stacked. He lets her take a step forward to pull the cloth away from his face. She takes one look at Mstislav's body and a loud, uncontrolled sob escapes her.

The sound wrenches at his soul. It guts him. He takes a step forward to put a hand on her shoulder but thinks better of it, backing away. But he can't just stand and do nothing while she cries. Not when he caused that pain, indirectly or not.

"Clarke—"

She wheels around. " _Klavdiya_." Her voice is pure venom. He recoils slightly. "I am Princess Klavdiya."

"Don't do this," he says softly. She goes on as if she hasn't heard him.

"And _you_ ," she continues. "I know who you are, now. Belgutei, the great general and advisor to Genghis Khan." She spits this at him mockingly. "You're the warlord who helped break my family apart."

He takes it, as he should. "I didn't know," he says miserably.

"You knew you were condemning Mstislav to death," she replies equally miserably. "Or are you saying that if you remembered me, you would have let him live?" Her eyes are wide, as if pleading for answers from him, or the universe, _anyone_.

He says nothing. He doesn't know the answer to that question. He doesn't know if the answer to that question would help.

When he doesn't answer, she crosses her arms, the fire returning. "The Bellamy I know would have saved him either way."

His heart hurts. "That's not how war works and you know it. This is who I've _always_ been," he says, and it's the truth, whether she's ready to hear it or not. "You're not being fair."

"Maybe I'm not," she replies, and her eyes are bright with tears again, some of the anger clearing so he can see the hurt behind it, the confusion, the distress, before it closes up. "But it's not fair that all the people I love keep dying. It's not fair that I got a third chance to see your face again, and it's the face of a murderer."

Her cold voice is what makes Bel snap. "Fuck your righteousness, princess," he snarls. "You think I have a say in these decisions? I advocated for _all_ the nobles to live. You want to blame someone, blame Subutai and Jebe. They're the ones that killed your husband." He hurls the last word out; it doesn't feel right in his mouth. Not when _he_ was married to her before.

"You walked out of the room while they were being killed," she replies quietly. "So. Fuck your cowardice." She turns, and he follows her as she barges out of the stable, to where her son has been occupied with the horses outside.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, keeping up with her.

"I'm taking Roman and I'm leaving," she says tightly. And then she calls: "Roman, come here."

So that's her son's name. Roman looks up, and he asks, "Where's Papa?"

His eyes are so wide and innocent. Bel closes his eyes at Clarke's answer.

"Papa's gone, baby," she says softly, kneeling at his level. "Now we have to go."

"Gone?" Roman echoes.

"You can't leave," Bel tells Clarke despite himself.

She stands suddenly, whirling to face him. "Like you're going to stop me?"

He doesn't flinch at the anger in her eyes. "Yes," he replies clearly. "This area is crawling with Mongols. You and Roman will be dead by morning if you go right now. Just— just wait."

"Just wait until what?" she sneers. "Until you can chain me up somewhere so I can't go anywhere?"

"I'm never going to do that," he says, affronted momentarily.

Her eyes are slightly shiny in the moonlight. "How would I know what you would do anymore?"

He ignores that. "Just wait till we clear out," he replies. "I'm travelling back soon, to report back to the Khan. The trip will take a few weeks, but you can slip away as soon as we clear out of the area. Hell, I'll help you do it."

She appears to be mulling it over, somehow reluctantly trusting this information. "How long will that take?"

"Don't know," he replies honestly. "In a few days, maybe. Whenever there's an opening."

Clarke looks down at her son, who's now clinging to her skirt and looking up at Bel with fear in his eyes. "Can't believe I brought you back," she says. Her voice isn't angry anymore, but sad. Bitter.

He knows, logically, that she's simply lashing out in the wake of her husband's death. She's loved Mstislav for years; the man has only just died and indirectly, Bel is the cause. Bel shouldn't take this comment personally. He _shouldn't_. But there's still a lump in his throat that he can't swallow down. "Yeah, well, I'm not ecstatic about the whole situation either," he replies sharply. "So you can leave when the time comes. We'll never have to see each other again." The words hang in the air awkwardly, as they both think the same thing: _Until the next life_. "But until then, you're my wife. My loving, devoted wife," he adds, just out of spite. "Got it?"

Clarke curls her fingers into Roman's blond curls. "Don't make me laugh, _Belgutei_."

—

"Did you bed her yet?" Jebe asks bluntly over breakfast the next morning. They stayed in the castle overnight. Bel took Clarke and her son back to the same room, bringing in some blankets for them both while he sat in a chair all night not sleeping— partly because he was guarding the only two Russian nobles left in the castle, and partly because he had a hunch that if he fell asleep they wouldn't be there in the morning.

(Things were so much simpler between Clarke and Bellamy when he was a prostitute, and that's saying something.)

Meanwhile, Jebe is clearly waiting for an answer. Bel wishes he could punch the general in the face, but that would start a fight, and Subutai would likely jump in and it'd be two on one, which is not ideal if he plans on winning. So he simply settles on saying, "That's none of your business."

"That means no," Subutai so cleverly observes. And then, to Jebe: "I wonder if he even likes women?"

Jebe leers. "History shows he likes children."

Bel's fingers tighten around his knife. Lately he's been struggling with repressing his urges to kill them, which would be troubling if Bel thought he would regret it even slightly. "You're disgusting."

"You'll just have to deal with us for a while longer," Subutai sneers while Jebe laughs raucously.

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Bel shoots the other general a look.

"We've decided not to move into Hungary with the rest of the army just yet," Subutai replies. "We're going with you to report to the Khan first."

Bel tries not to let his surprise show. He was banking on the two generals and him splitting ways, giving Clarke ample time and safety to slip away. "Why?"

"The Khan wants to go over the plans to conquer Hungary and Europe in person," Jebe replies. "He doesn't want it getting fucked up."

"I'll make sure to advise him to keep you two buffoons out of it then." Without waiting for a response Bel gets up and walks away, back through the castle to fetch Clarke.

This is messy. Subutai and Jebe with them on their way back to the Khan's current camp will make it harder to help Clarke to escape in good time. He supposes he could pretend to kill her and let her go, but then they'd want proof of a body.

Clarke won't be pleased.

—

Clarke is not pleased.

"I'm beginning to think you're just making up all this danger, Belgutei," she tells him, crossing her arms. "Maybe I should just slip out tonight. Take my chances." She arches a brow challengingly.

He shrugs just as casually. "Yeah, guess you could. I mean, if you die, no big deal, right? You're probably going to come back. But your son doesn't have the same luxury." She blinks; he lets that sink in before going on. "Come on, princess. Are you _really_ willing to bet your son's life on me being a liar?"

When her eyes sweep to Roman sitting in the corner playing with his toys, and her mouth thins into a line, conceding the point, he knows that she still trusts him. It feels like a victory.

"Look," he adds, buoyed by the knowledge. "Just come with us for now. When the coast is clear, I promise I will make sure you and your son make it back to wherever you want to go. I swear." He makes sure to look her in the eye as he vows this.

She looks at him, really _looks_ at him long and hard. Apparently she finds what she's looking for, because she nods.

—

The next day they move out, and Clarke is standing in the middle of the bustling camp holding her son, looking like she's trying very hard to ignore all the Mongols watching her every move. Bel doesn't blame her.

He approaches, and she doesn't notice him until he's almost upon her. Her eyes jump from him to the white horse he's leading by the reins. For an instant, her eyes brighten and her mouth opens with wonder.

He basks in it, giving her a sunny grin as he feeds the horse a carrot from his hand.

She snaps her mouth shut as she watches the exchange. "Getting me a pretty horse isn't going to make me fall into bed with you."

He pretends to frown. "Who said it's for you?" He looks over at Roman, in Clarke's arms. "Hey Roman, you wanna feed the horse?"

Roman looks at him shyly, having not quite warmed up to him yet. But his wide brown eyes flick up to the large horse and back. Bel offers him a small piece of carrot. "Go on. Feed him. He won't bite."

Slowly, Roman removes one of his arms from around Clarke's neck and takes the carrot.

"In your palm," Bel instructs, and after a minute of direction, the horse is nibbling out of Roman's hand, and the boy is giggling.

"It tickles."

Bel watches him fondly. "Course it does. That's his tongue." The horse finishes licking Roman's palm, nudging against it as if looking for more. "Wanna ride him?"

Roman's eyes brighten.

"I'm riding with him," Clarke says, the first thing she's said since Bel turned to Roman..

"Wouldn't expect anything different," Bel replies, looking at her. She's rosy-cheeked and beautiful from the brisk weather. "Need a boost up?"

She gives him a look. "I've ridden horses before." He lifts his hands in a placating gesture, and she puts Roman on the ground so she can heft herself into the saddle. Bel picks Roman up under the arms and lifts him so Clarke can take him and situate him on the saddle right in front of her.

The group ride out within the half hour, and Bellamy on his own horse rides close to Clarke. He doesn't like the way Jebe and Subutai ride behind her, watching. He's got to keep an eye on those two.

Meanwhile, Roman looks delighted to be on the horse, tugging on its silvery mane. He's happy, still probably not quite grasping that his father's dead. The boy's smile tugs on Bel's heartstrings. A part of him misses having children; he had them in his first life, but died too early to watch them grow up.

But _Clarke_ did, he realizes suddenly. Clarke knew their children, and curiosity burns at him. Impulsively, he spurs his horse to catch up fully to Clarke's horse. "Cl— Klavdiya?"

She tears her eyes away from her own son to look at him. "What?"

He swallows. "In our first life," he says quietly. "Our children. Did they—" There's something stuck in his throat, and he has to clear it before he's able to continue with a rougher voice— "did they grow up okay?"

Something in her eyes softens. Maybe she sees his desperation to know— she isn't so cruel as to deprive him of that, although maybe he deserves it. "The youngest died of fever the same winter you did," she tells him, and he feels himself becoming misty-eyed.

"I must have passed the sickness to her," he mutters, looking down at his hands. "Sorry."

"Don't be," she replies. "She was already a sickly baby before that, if you remember. The rest were fine, though. Our daughter became a warrior," she smiles, and he smiles too, liking the imagery of that. "Our eldest son became a healer, and the younger a teacher."

"And… and they were happy?"

Her eyes are half-lidded. "So happy."

He has a funny feeling she's sugar-coating it for his benefit, but that can't be right. Why would she do anything for his benefit? He nods rapidly. "Good," he replies gruffly, wanting to ask more, wanting to know _everything_ about his children, but he doesn't want to press his luck too far. So that's all there is to that conversation.

—

That night, they camp in their makeshift tents. Bel delivers Clarke an ultimatum while he whittles a small piece of wood, trying his best to sound casual.

"You either sleep in here with me, or you take your chances with the soldiers sleeping outside," he tells her, pointing in the direction of the muffled laughing and talking outside the tent, "or, even more entertaining, you sleep in one of Jebe's or Subutai's tents."

She glares at him for a moment, then grabs her bedroll and drags it to the opposite side of the tent. The effect is slightly less dramatic considering the tent is only about three strides wide.

Roman doesn't have such qualms with Bel, crawling into his lap to snuggle down. Clarke doesn't try to stop him, simply watching as Bel easily hefts the small boy in his arms by the underarms.

"When can we leave?" she asks abruptly. "Tonight, while they're all asleep?"

Bel casts a glance at the tent wall. "Keep your voice down."

"They can't understand my language," she snorts, folding her arms.

"They can understand your tone," Bel shoots back. "And besides, in case you haven't noticed, we're surrounded by soldiers in this camp. Jebe and Subutai are sleeping practically next door."

"So?"

"So, they're keeping an eye on us," he grits out. "Look, I haven't figured out a way to get you both out of here alive. But as soon as I do, I will get you out of here." She purses her lips and he sighs. "Can you just trust me on this?"

She gives him a look. "Really?"

"Yes," he replies pointedly. "This may come as a surprise, but I don't want you or Roman dead."

He doesn't filter the bitterness in his voice, Clarke's face softens slightly and her mouth opens. There's conflict written all over her face, but before she can speak Roman cuts in.

"I don't want to be dead either," the boy announces, reaching up to tug on one of Bel's curls. Bel had almost forgotten he was holding Roman while he and Clarke spoke, but after exchanging a look with Clarke he can tell this conversation is over. They shouldn't be talking about such grave matters with her son around. So Bel just bops his nose. "Hungry, little man?"

" _Yes_ ," Roman groans with great dramatic flare. "I could eat a horse."

Bel quirks up a brow and tsks. "After all that poor thing did for you today?" He looks over at Clarke. "I could go for something too, right now."

"I'm _not_ cooking for you."

He snorts. "Don't worry. I still remember that you're shit at it." He stands with Roman still in his arms— as best as he can in the tent, still slightly hunched, and backs out of the tent, beckoning to her. "Let's go."

She follows him. "I'm not shit at cooking. I used to cook for my husband."

"Hmm," Bel says in the most unconvinced tone he can manage, while trying to ignore the strange pit her comment creates in his gut. Clarke has made it pretty clear he doesn't have a right to feel that way.

He and Clarke go out into the camp, and some of the soldiers fall silent at the sight of the princess. It sets a prickling feeling to Bel's back. He feels paranoid as hell about the way they all watch her.

If the way she looks around is any indication, she's feeling some of the same. Bellamy turns and delivers the nearest gawker his most ferocious glare. "Need something?" he asks. "Or are you looking at my wife because you have a death wish?"

They all slowly turn away and slink back into their own conversations.

"What did you say to them?" Clarke asks. He turns to see the smallest trace of an amused smile.

He shakes his head and walks over to the tray of cooked meat by the fire, handing a piece to Clarke without replying. He's surrounded by pigs who will only back off from a woman if another man has claimed her. What will happen to Clarke and Roman when they go off on their own?

He's broken out of his thoughts when Roman leans forward and whispers in his ear, "This is really yummy."

"Better than mom's cooking?" he whispers back.

Roman nods fast. "Wayyy better."

He grins. Thought so.

—

It's a few nights later when the opportunity arises. He rushes into his and Clarke's shared tent, and she looks up, caught off guard. He stops short because he is, too— unprepared for the sight of her in her flimsy camisole, with her hair long and unencumbered while she brushes it out.

There's red rising to her cheeks and she puts the brush down. "Can't you announce yourself before you walk in?"

"This is _my_ tent," he feels the need to point out.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't realize that means everything inside it is yours too."

"I'm not trying to—" he grinds his teeth and stops short. The clock is ticking. He speaks again, slower and calmer. "It's time for you and Roman to go."

Her eyes widen. "It's—"

"It's safe right now, but not for long," he replies, and reaches into his back pocket, withdrawing a folded piece of paper. "Map," he explains, passing it over, and then the bag he'd had slung over his shoulder too. "Supplies." She takes it without a word. "Now listen to me carefully, alright? There's a watch, but I can get you past them. After that, there's a village to the north of here— I know someone there, her name's on the map. She'll let you stay for a night or two. From there—" he shakes his head helplessly— "I can't help you. The map should get you back to where you came from. I assume you've got relatives, friends there."

She nods slowly, not taking her eyes off him. "I do."

"Good," he says gruffly. His heart is already twinging at the thought of her being gone. "Then wake up Roman and put on some clothes and let's go."

She does as she's told while Bel stands watch just outside the tent, making sure that the coast is still clear when Clarke and her son emerge. And then there's no excuse at all for them to still be staring at each other but they are.

He doesn't want her to leave. Maybe he's imagining it because he wants her to stay so badly, but he sees that exact thought mirrored on her face.

They only wrench their eyes away from each other because someone laughs loudly in the distance, reminding them that there is a world outside of the space between their gazes.

"Should we go?" Bel asks, trying to hide how shaken he is.

She doesn't answer right away, still staring at him as if lost.

"Cla— Klavdivya?"

She blinks, and the moment is gone. "I— Yes," she replies after a moment's hesitation. "Yes, we should go now." Her words still sound uncertain, and she clutches her son's hand tightly.

If he didn't know better, he'd think she didn't want to leave him at all.

As they creep through the treeline, she whispers cautiously, "Are Jebe and Subutai gone?"

"They're otherwise occupied tonight," he replies, keeping his eye out for the guards on watch.

"With what?"

Bel makes a face into the darkness. "I think you know."

Clarke shudders, clutching tighter to Roman's hand. "How can you work with those monsters?"

A question he asks himself every day. "Like you said," he whispers back darkly. "I am one too."

She's quiet for a long moment and when she speaks again there's something softer in her tone: "Look, I—" But before she can say more he hears a branch snap faintly behind them and he whips around, heart jumping into his throat and throwing an arm out in front of Clarke. The guard isn't supposed to be in this section of forest. He knows the schedule inside out, this is supposed to be _safe—_

A figure appears in his line of sight. One of the soldiers. Just staring at them.

"What are you doing?" Bel growls.

The soldier speaks, eyes on Clarke, who's pushed Roman behind her. "I was told to stick with you. Keep you safe."

Bel almost snorts— bullshit. "And who gave you that order?"

"Jebe."

Bel's heart sinks at the confirmation. So they suspect. "We can take care of ourselves," he snaps back. "Get back on watch."

The soldier shrugs and slinks away again, and it's a full minute before Bel releases a breath.

"What now?" Clarke asks quietly. "Should I go?"

"No," he replies instantly, turning to them both. "Jebe and Subutai suspect you. If you leave, they'll make it their mission to find you before you can get far." Her mouth opens. "They they have a certain single-mindedness when it comes to being crossed. It's one of their strengths as generals. And a weakness too."

"If they suspect me, then I'll never get to leave," Clarke whispers.

"I was getting to that," Bel replies, and steels himself for what he has to say now. "You have to stop looking at me like you want to run away. Everyone sees it. Everyone knows you're not happy with me." He says it brusquely, but the words hurt him when they're flung out into the open between them.

"So what— you want me to act like I _want_ to be here? Like I want to be your wife?" His silence is all the answer she needs. She folds her arms insolently. "I don't want to do that."

He's had enough of her stubbornness, and grabs her arm to shake her slightly. She wrenches her arm out of his grip instantly. "Yes, you do," he hisses. "If you want to take the attention off yourself, you have to act like nothing is wrong. Like you love me. Do you get that?"

"Unfortunately," she grumbles at last.

—

Nevertheless, Clarke does it. Bel isn't surprised. Clarke would do anything for those she loves, and he can tell how much she loves her son by the way her cold blue eyes soften when they turn to him.

Those eyes soften when they look at Bel now, too.

Only outside of their tent— only when eyes are watching.

The first time, he's simply standing with Jebe and Subutai and Clarke saunters up boldly, places a hand on his shoulder, and pushes her chest against him.

He's shocked for a long moment, at least until she tilts her head up and says in sugary tones in Russian, "Do you think it looks like I want to fuck you right now?"

He turns, blinks at her. She's batting her eyes at him. It does funny things to him. But he pushes it back, and returns her slow, sultry smile. He pitches his voice low. "I'd say you're doing a good job convincing them."

"What's she saying?" Subutai says, and then, "ah, never mind. Foreplay is a universal language." He reaches forward to cuff Bel across the head. "Go fuck her, brother."

Jebe gives him a playful push in the back when he doesn't move right away. "Opportunities like that don't come knocking very often, Belgutei," he jibes, and the two of them laugh. Bel feels ill. Naturally, this would be the only time they would display comradery, when he seemingly starts following in their crass footsteps.

Clarke ignores them, taking Bel's arm and leading him back to their tent.

As soon as the canvas flaps close behind them, she steps away and smooths her hair away from her face. "Good?"

He takes a moment to respond because he's trying to get Clarke's utterly seductive gaze out of his head. Then he clears his throat, passes his hand over his face and mutters, "Yeah, I'd say so."

She nods once and moves away from him, and he finds himself staring after her.

After that, she continues to be more warm to him around camp, and he can almost get lost in it, forget that it's all a ploy. It's especially hard to remember when she leans over him, breasts pushing practically in his face and gives him that _fuck me_ look she takes on when she wants an excuse to leave the circle. Even worse is those times, when he offers her some food or scoops up her son into his arms, and she _smiles_ at him.

He wishes he didn't remember what it was like for her to do those things and mean them. Maybe it would hurt less.

—

The weeks pass fast. Despite Clarke's best efforts, Subutai and Jebe stick annoyingly close to their side, and Bellamy finds it difficult to find another opening for her to leave safely.

"I hate them," Clarke tells him one day while they're riding.

"What's she saying, Belgutei?" Jebe calls from his own horse.

"Commenting on the weather," Bel replies smoothly, and switches back to Russian. "They haven't been bothering you or Roman, have they?"

"No," she replies, and shudders. "They just… look."

Bel contemplates stabbing out the two generals' eyes. "I'll talk to them."

"It's not just me," she whispers, and turns her eyes on him. "They look at you, too."

He blinks. Well, that's news. "Like what?"

"I don't know."

"What's she saying now, Belgutei?" Subutai calls mockingly.

"Told you, the weather," he replies, switching back.

"Awful lot of talk from her about the weather."

"Awful lot of talk from you, period," Bel shoots back, and then turns to Clarke with his most reassuring tone. "I promise I'll get you out of here as soon as it's safe. We're nearly at the Khan's camp, but I can take you with me anywhere you want to go from there. Without these asses following us."

Clarke nods, biting her lip. Strangely, she doesn't look as thrilled as he would've thought.

 _—_

They reach Temujin's camp, and Bel's half-brother gives Clarke a once-over before whistling and clapping Bel on the shoulder. "Can't believe you took my advice."

Bel shakes off his hand with annoyance. "It wasn't planned, trust me."

The Khan chuckles and his eyes fall on Roman. "And who's the little one?" He squats down to Roman's level. The boy hides behind his mother's leg. "He can't be yours."

"He's Klavdiya's son," Bel says shortly. He doesn't want to get into this discussion, but Temujin's eyes brighten with curiosity.

"Another man's son? Why didn't you get rid of him?"

Before Bel can answer, Subutai snorts. "Get rid of him? Belgutei didn't let us kill the princess _because_ of the child."

It's quiet for a moment. Bel braces himself for a fight. But unexpectedly, Temujin simply barks out a loud chuckle and straightens back to full height. "Belgutei, you're always good for a laugh." He claps him on the shoulder again, and Bel feels his lips tighten into a line. The other two generals look slightly disgruntled as well.

"They're both under my protection," Bel feels the need to say, because he can't get a read on his half-brother's mood. "No one touches them."

Temujin is still chuckling as he walks away from them. "Listen to the man, boys." Jebe and Subutai huff and stalk off, leaving the three of them alone.

Clarke whispers, "I don't like him," into his ear, and he nearly jumps at how close she is. She's at his back, her warmth radiating through his clothes, and it's difficult to handle suddenly.

"I'm scared," Roman says. "Mommy, I'm scared."

Bel wheels around to crouch at Roman's eye level. "You don't have to be," he tells the boy, looking him in the eye. "I'm going to take care of you. You, and your mom." He tips his head up to glance at Clarke.

She stares at him for a moment, then nods hesitatingly at him.

—

That night, there's a celebration for their conquering of Kiev— aka the murdering of the princes— and Bel leaves the festivities as soon as they start to find Clarke in his much larger tent.

She's just sitting there, legs drawn to her chest and staring at the wall. Roman's fast asleep next to her. She looks up when he enters, and he offers a bottle of vodka. "To drown them out," he says with a sympathetic smile.

She stares at it for a moment before accepting it. "Don't act like you had no part in it." Her voice holds no venom, though. Just tiredness. Emptiness. Somehow that's worse.

He takes a swig of his own vodka without answering, and they just drink for a while, getting increasingly tipsy until he finds himself just staring at her unabashedly, the way the light from the candle flickers over her eyes and hair and pale skin and her fingers as she strokes them slowly through Roman's hair. And then Bel finds himself saying, "Tell me about him."

She glances at him sharply.

He's already regretting it as he's saying it but his tongue is too loose to stop. "Tell me about your husband," he elaborates. "Mstislav. If you want to." It's an offer, but it's also something he wants to know. He wants to understand how and why she fell in love with someone who wasn't him.

That's not fair of him to think, he knows that— she didn't even _remember_ Bellamy at that point in her life— but it still makes him uneasy. He doesn't get it. It makes him think there's a part to Clarke he doesn't understand, and there's no lifetime where that's okay to him.

She looks away. "Why do you want to know about him?" She sounds a little bitter, a little tired, a little sad. He feels the same.

"Because I want to know every part of you," he replies truthfully.

Clarke closes her eyes when he says that, letting out a breath. "It's so much easier to hate you when you're not saying things like that."

He blinks at this bombshell. "It's… hard to hate me?"

She nods once, staring in front of her without speaking.

He waits for her to elaborate. She doesn't. "Are you going to explain?"

"I wasn't a princess before I married him," she blurts suddenly, out of the blue. Bel sits up with interest. "I was a kitchen girl. A commoner."

"And they let you two get married," he says slowly.

"Well, I do what I want." They share a small, knowing smile for just a moment in remembrance of their last life before she looks away with a frown. "And there was opposition, but we did love each other. So… everything worked."

Bel lies down, resting his head against his arm and staring up at the ceiling. "How'd you meet?" he asks, and then takes a long swig straight from the bottle as she starts talking. He'll need it.

She tells him the whole goddamn story, and even as he soaks it up he wishes he hadn't asked. She keeps inserting cutesy details of what Mstislav used to do for her, and hell, the way she describes it _he's_ half falling in love with the guy. And he's also indescribably jealous. There's a possessive feeling in his chest. Clarke's _his_ wife.

But she's not anymore, is she? Death already did them part. Any marriage contract they had is null and void.

"Touching. You know he was actually a murderous warlord, right," he tells her callously at the end, waving his now near-empty bottle around. He has no filter at this point. "Just like me."

She snorts quietly. "Not the same." Irritation flashes through him and he turns his head.

"Tell me something," he says. "Tell me something, _Klavdiya_. Why am I held to a different standard than him?" She's quiet, and he finds himself getting increasingly angry. "You know better than anyone that sometimes you have to make hard decisions— it's not black and white. _You_ were like that in our first life. What changed? Why all the judgement now?"

Her eyes look glassy in the candlelight.

"What changed?" he growls again, and she snaps.

"Our _lives_ changed," she shouts at him, and then immediately hushes herself with a half-glance at Roman. He's still out stone-cold. "Literally."

" _We_ didn't have to," he says quietly. "We didn't have to change." And he sounds a bit like he's pleading but he doesn't care, because… "I miss you."

She glances up at him, eyes shiny, and then ducks her head down again, but not before he sees a tear slip out between her lashes. "I love Msistlav," she insists, and he sighs and leans back, at least until she adds, so quietly he almost doesn't hear her, "and that's the worst part."

He jerks his head up. "What?"

She closes her eyes, and it takes her a moment before she draws in a shuddering breath. "That's the worst part," she repeats. "I loved him first, but then I remembered you, and it's like everything I had with him was tainted. I loved my husband but I feel like... I was cheating on you with him." He stares, and she wipes her eyes angrily. "It _shouldn't_ feel like that. I didn't do anything wrong." She looks up at him with hard eyes. "If I didn't have past lives— then this is exactly how I would treat the man who stood by while my husband was killed."

"But you _do_ have past lives," Bel points out.

"They don't matter," she snaps. He balks. "If they matter more than the life I'm living right now, then what kind of life _am_ I living?" She gestures at her sleeping son. "If the only thing that matters is our history together, am I supposed to care less about what happens to the people in my life right _now_?" Clarke's voice is angry, sharp, but there's a tinge of desperation to it.

"No," he says, caught off guard. "No, of course not."

She throws her hands up. "Then please, go ahead and tell me what parts of my current life matter and which ones don't!" Her voice rises an octave at the end of her sentence, and at the end of her outburst her arms slowly lower.

They stare at each other, and Bel thinks that he gets it. Clarke, as always, sees the long game. She sees how living multiple lives, over and over again, could eventually make her feel distant from the rest of humanity. And she's trying to proactively reject that.

Which basically means she's rejecting _him_.

"Okay," He says finally, slowly. "If this is what you need to do to not go crazy, I get that." Although it hurts like a bitch. "But what if you're wrong?"

Her chest is heaving as she stares at him, and he tries desperately not to notice. "About what?"

"What if this is it for us?" he asks. "What if this is the last life that we live?"

"It's not," is her automatic response.

"You sure about that?"

She huffs. "This is our _third_ life. If the witch was only going to give us one more chance, we wouldn't even be here. So yes, I'm fairly certain."

His frustration gets the better of him. "Better fucking hope so."

She narrows her eyes at his tone. "You're insufferable," she snaps at him.

"Maybe you'll like me in the next life," he shoots back.

"Only if you're not as much of an ass."

Irritation surges in him again, and he points his bottle at her accusingly. Later he'll blame his drunkenness for his next brazen comment. "You like my ass, princess." When she gapes at him, scandalized, he arches up an eyebrow. "Don't think I didn't notice you groping me all the time in the last life."

Her cheeks are flushed but she hisses back anyway, "Well, don't think I don't notice you staring at my tits all the time in _this_ life—"

Their argument is cut off because Roman suddenly yawns, very loudly. Loud enough to startle both of them out of it and look down to him.

"Mommy?" Roman whispers, snuggling closer to her. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Clarke says, all warmth and love in her expression as she looks down at the boy. Great. Just when he thought he couldn't get more pathetic, Bel's suddenly mildly jealous of a _toddler_. "Go back to sleep, baby."

Roman yawns again and falls silent.

The ensuing pause is rather tense.

Bel throws his bottle to the side and pulls a knife from his cloak instead. Clarke watches with pursed lips as he digs out a piece of wood and starts whittling furiously. Then she shakes her head and lies down, turning her back to him, and they don't speak for the rest of the night.

—

They don't speak much at _all_ after that. It's all terse mutterings: "Pass me that," "Wake up," "Are you thirsty," "You're hogging my blanket again," and finally, "Temujin and the others are leaving camp for the day and they're leaving me in charge, so tonight is the best time for you and Roman to leave."

Clarke looks up sharply when he says that from where she's washing some clothes in the nearby stream. He's standing over her, and she drops the clothes on a rock before rising to her full height, almost a head shorter than him.

"You're sure?" she asks.

"Yes."

She swallows, lips parting.

"Be ready," he adds tonelessly. He's feeling a very strong rush of déjà vu. Maybe it's for the best that Clarke leaves as soon as possible. Maybe eventually it'll stop hurting, too.

And just like that he's handing her a pack and a map, giving her brusque instructions about where to go, and ignoring the desperate aching in his heart that wishes her to stay.

Clarke releases a shaky breath when it's time to leave their tent for the last time. Bel has to wonder if she's scared of leaving. She may not like being here, but at least Belgutei was the devil she knew. The rest of the world— not so much.

Bel kneels down to Roman's level.

"Look, I made you something," he murmurs to the boy, and retrieves from his cloak the wooden bear he's spent the last few days carving.

Roman takes it without hesitation, looks at it with wonder. "What's it supposed to be?" Bel sighs.

Clarke snorts. "Art's never been your strong suit."

"True," he says, standing back to full height after patting Roman's head fondly. "That was always yours. Do you still do it?"

She looks at him— _really_ looks at him, in a way that makes him feel like she's staring into his soul. She's always been the only person who can make him feel that vulnerable and safe all at once. "Sometimes," she replies at last, and begins wrapping her scarf around her hair. Bel watches the golden tresses disappear under the dull fabric. "Roman, say thank you for the toy."

"Is that what it is?" Roman asks bluntly. Clarke appears to be fighting down a laugh.

"It's a little bear, Roman. Be polite. Say thank you."

Roman mumbles his thanks and then, "Is he coming with us?"

A very awkward moment follows that question. They didn't tell Roman that they were leaving, but he seems to have sensed it from the atmosphere around the two of them. Clarke finally says, "No," while looking at her boots.

Roman's lower lip trembles. "Are we coming back?"

"Maybe later, baby," Clarke says.

Roman clutches tighter to the wooden bear. "I don't want to go," he whispers, stepping away from his mother. "I'm not going."

Clarke looks up at Bel, a panicked expression on her face.

Bel fights off the sudden and odd wave of emotion he's feeling. Dammit, he'd gotten more attached to Roman than he had ever intended. "Listen, kid," he says gruffly. "You can either stay here with me, doing boring adult stuff, or you can go with your mom, on that horse, and go on an adventure instead." He quirks his eyebrow up. "What sounds more fun to you?" Roman looks conflicted, so Bel persists. "Boring adult stuff? Okay, you get to stay with me and look at maps all day and write long lists and count supplies—"

"I changed my mind," Roman says suddenly, backing away, and Bel grins internally. Then he looks up, and Clarke is smiling outwardly. It catches him off guard, and maybe that's evident in his expression because her smile fades as if she's been caught doing something she shouldn't, and they just stare at each other another moment.

Bel clears his throat and looks down at his boots. "As soon as we get out of camp, you should go. Remember, stick to crowds," he instructs, a pit of anxiety now growing in his own stomach. "Keep the knife I gave you on you at all times. And—"

"Stay sharp," she cuts him off, a smile playing on her lips. "I know."

Bel picks up Roman and hands him over to Clarke, and then there's no excuse at all for them to still be staring at each other but they are.

At least until a shout rings distantly through camp behind them, and it makes both of them start. There's a commotion outside.

"Stay here," he instructs the both of them, and goes to investigate.

—

Several thieves from the town one over are caught trying to steal from camp stores. It's Bel who finds them— or rather, they find _him_ , putting a sword to his neck while they root through the supplies tent. Bel calmly stays on his knees, observing the wild desperation in the thieves' eyes, waiting until they're distracted enough by the ample goods to disarm the five of them.

(There's a reason he's a _general_ in the Khan's army, after all.)

He plans to let them go after scaring them a bit, fully aware that Clarke is still waiting back at the tent ready to go, but then… complications arise. In the form of Jebe and Subutai strolling back to camp early.

Shit, Bel curses internally. Jebe and Subutai quickly find out the whole story from the guards, and naturally, they try to take over.

"Kill these fools," Subutai says dismissively, and two of their guards take a step towards the prisoners, now cowering next to the firepit. The other soldiers in camp watch on the periphery.

"Wait," Bel barks, and the guards halt in their direction. He turns to the other generals. "They were just hungry. They didn't mean anything by it."

"So what?" Jebe snorts. "They think it's fine to steal from us? From the great Khan?" Bel's lips tighten, and Jebe releases an exasperated sigh. "For God's sake, Belgutei, they were ready to kill you and you want to show them _mercy_?"

"They were desperate, that's all," he replies evenly. "They're just trying to survive. Show them mercy, and they'll live to go back to their village and warn the others against trying to steal from us."

His tactic doesn't work. Subutai shakes his head and nods at the guards. "If they don't come back at all, it's warning enough. Carry on."

But Bel stops them by standing in front of the prisoners. The vision of Clarke's husband and the rest of the Russian lords flashes in his memory.

He doesn't want to be a monster anymore.

"Get out of the way, Belgutei," Jebe says in a bored voice, unsheathing his sword and stepping forward.

Bel stays rooted to the spot and speaks with as much conviction as he can. "We're not killing them."

"Now's not the time to be a goddamn bleeding heart," Subutai sighs. "They're not even children. They're soldiers."

"They've _got_ children," Bel replies shortly. "They've got families."

Jebe laughs, an ugly snort. "Well, then who are we allowed to kill? Everyone's got family."

Bel gives him a look. Jebe stares at him. Subutai releases a low whistle. "He's actually serious," he says slowly. "He's not going to budge on this. When did you get so soft, brother?"

"Probably around the same time you two got so stupid," Bel replies.

Jebe lunges forward suddenly, and Bel barely gets a moment to step back before the sword is pressed to his neck. "I've had _just_ about enough of your insults," he hisses. "You won't be able to make so many when I cut out your tongue."

Bellamy meets his gaze stonily.

"Jebe…" Subutai says uncertainly. "The Khan won't like that."

"I'm not _killing_ him," Jebe says dismissively. "Just—aah!" Bel chooses the moment to wrangle the sword out of Jebe's hands and head-butt him backwards, and the guards surge forward to restrain Bel.

They have more loyalty to Jebe, he realizes. The other generals aren't the only ones who think Bel's gone soft.

"Hold him," Jebe instructs, and someone forces Bel's jaw open, no matter how furiously he tries to shake them off. Dread coils in his stomach as Jebe brandishes his knife.

A cry cuts across the grounds, and they all look.

Clarke, as usual not heeding his words, has emerged from the tent.

He knows that wild look in her eyes. She's ready to do something stupid. "Get out of here, Clarke," he growls. He doesn't want her to see this. And he sure as hell doesn't want her to be anywhere near these men while a violent incident is occurring.

"Not until they let you go," Clarke replies, stomping closer. Her hands are balled into fists, and she delivers a ferocious glare at Jebe, who appears to quail for a millisecond before his sneer is back in place.

"Subutai," he says.

Subutai's hand snakes out without warning and grabs Clarke's arm. She cries out while he wrenches her close. "You can watch," he says, and Clarke tugs fruitlessly at his hands. "Don't worry, we're not cutting off anything important to you." Jebe raises his knife again. Bel's mouth is forced open again.

Clarke starts to cry. Bel hates it. He doesn't want her to cry about him.

"My tongue is pretty important," he manages to say, wondering why he's making jokes at a time like this.

"Not for sex," Jebe says with a sneer. "Just need a dick for that."

Bel tsks. He might as well since after this he won't have a tongue left to tsk with. "See, this is why no woman wants to go near you."

Jebe snaps.

He lowers his knife, aiming instead for the ribcage, and Bel realizes that he's about to be stabbed in the heart.

But then he hears: "No!" And there's a blur of movement to his right—a blur of yellow, and a surprised grunt from Subutai—and the next thing he knows, it's not him sinking to the ground with a knife in the gut, it's _Clarke_.

Clarke, Clarke, Clarke, on the floor, a hand pressed to the wound, her fingers slippery with blood around the protruding blade.

Everyone else is just as shocked as he is, and the hold on him loosens enough that he's able to tear away and fall to his knees beside her.

"What the hell is going on?" says a new voice. Temujin has finally returned as well. Too late. Because Bellamy can already see the life ebbing away from her eyes, and maybe if he was _her_ , a healer, he'd be able to help. But he can't. He's useless.

Clarke opens her mouth and he tries to shush her, gathering her in his arms and rocking her.

"Don't talk," Bel murmurs, pushing her hair away from her face. "We'll get you out of here, okay?" She keeps trying to talk anyway.

"Please," she whimpers, then coughs.

"Shhh," he says gently.

She tries to lift her head to get closer, but he quickly lowers his own so she doesn't have to. Her lips brush against his ear. "Please take care of Roman."

He's momentarily surprised, but then he nods briskly, trying to keep tears out of his eyes. But she grips his arm suddenly, hard enough to almost make him wince. "Promise me." Her voice surges louder, more commanding, like she's sitting on a throne giving him an order instead of dying in his arms. "Promise me you will protect him."

She's not asking him to take Roman to her relatives in Russia; she's asking him to raise her child. He recognizes the absolute trust she is placing in him. Bel swallows; he doesn't want to break down right now. But he is, a little bit. Now he has to wonder if this is how she felt every time he died.

Perhaps he leaves too much a pause after her words because she repeats again, in a broken whisper, " _Please_ , Bellamy." He blinks at the use of his real name, how when it's said in her voice it makes him feel real and grounded to reality. "Please take care of my son." The words seem to sap her of whatever strength she had left, and her head thumps back to the ground.

While she struggles to breathe in her last moment, Bellamy wonders how she thinks he would ever abandon Roman without a parent when he couldn't even do it the first time. He slowly reaches out a hand to pry her fingers off his arm and interlace them with his own. " _Our_ son," he tells her, squeezing her hand.

Her eyes are growing steadily glassier, but his words still register. Her lips part.

"I wasn't there to take care of your children last time. I _promise_ ," Bellamy whispers fervently, suddenly fierce in his need for Clarke to understand him, "this time, I will be."

He thinks she catches the tail end of his words before she stops breathing, but he isn't sure. Bellamy closes his eyes, squeezes her hand one more time. And he hopes more than anything that Clarke was right. That they _will_ meet again.

The sounds of the generals arguing in the background with Temujin slowly bring him back to his senses, and he rises off his haunches slowly.

"- his levels of disrespect left us no choice—"

"- he was making us look bad, in front of all the men—"

"Enough," Temujin barks. Bellamy turns around slowly. The scene before him looks a little surreal, fuzzy around the edges like a dream. Or maybe the red creeping into the edges of his vision is something else. " _Look_ at him. He's been punished already, far more than whatever his crimes against you were."

Jebe spits on the ground, eyeing Bellamy with hatred. "Yes, well I'm more glad than anyone that the bitch is dead, but that doesn't mean—"

Bellamy's on him in a flash, before any of them can react. He's got no weapon on him but if he did it'd already be buried in the bastard's stomach. As it is, he surges forward to grab the other man around the throat, pushing him back and roaring in his face, " _What_ did you just call her? _What_?"

There are hands on his arms, around his waist trying to pull him back, but he holds onto Jebe, watching with satisfaction as his face grows purpler as he chokes and simultaneously tries to respond.

"Say it one more time!" Bellamy screams. He knows he sounds deranged from the way his words echo around the camp. People are watching. He doesn't care. They also watched when Clarke was dying in his arms— and did nothing. "Give me _another_ reason to kill you!"

Jebe manages to get out, "I hope her little runt dies the same—" before Bellamy shakes off both Subutai and Temujin and throws Jebe into the dirt. Before the general can get his bearings, Bellamy's on him again, punching him over and over, knuckles slipping on blood-wetted skin, no semblance of finesse left.

"Belgutei!" The Khan bellows in his ear. Dimly, Bellamy knows he's way way _way_ out of line, but the word 'Belgutei' that he has answered by for his entire life means nothing to him right now. All that matters is Clarke lying dead in the dirt behind them, the plea she left imprinted on his soul, and the bastard in front of him who killed her.

Unfortunately, before he can finish the job, he's pulled off Jebe, several hands of guards helping the Khan and Subutai subdue him. He fights them at first, twisting his arms out of their grip, wildly kicking, but a heavy blow is delivered to his head from behind and he's dazed enough to be dragged back.

When he comes to, he's forced to his knees with his hands tied behind him. Jebe is being helped up by a few soldiers, wiping blood from his scowling mouth and staring at Bellamy with narrowed eyes. Actually, Bellamy realizes— everyone is staring at him like that.

He can imagine why. He's always been cool-headed. That's the reason he's known as a great messenger and diplomat in the Khan's army. But now? They don't recognize him.

"Belgutei," The Khan himself says carefully, walking to stand in front of him. Bellamy doesn't raise his eyes to look at him, choosing to fasten his gaze on the ground.

"He killed my wife," he grinds out.

"I understand that, but we are leaders, we cannot senselessly kill each other," Temujin says soothingly. "I never thought I'd have to tell _you_ that. If I let you up, can you promise on your own life to me that you won't attack Jebe again?"

"No," Bellamy mutters honestly, and another ripple of shock goes through the gathering crowd of soldiers.

"He needs to be taught a lesson," Subutai snarls, and Temujin looks at him sharply, so he adds, "With all due respect."

Temujin turns back to Bellamy, kneels to his level. "Brother, look at me."

Bellamy looks up. Maybe Temujin sees something in his eyes, because he sighs and rocks back on his heels. "You will have to be punished further for this, you know."

Bellamy says nothing.

"Do you understand why, Belgutei? We can't have dissention in our ranks." He sounds like he feels regretful about it. Bellamy doesn't feel anything at all. The Khan says his name again, and Bellamy finally delivers a response.

"Fine." He doesn't care.

"Do not attempt to harm Jebe or any of my men ever again," Temujin adds. "Or I will have no choice but to kill you. I won't take any pleasure from it."

As they slowly unrestrain Bellamy, he plans it wildly. He can see it all in his mind's eye— the sword on the belt of the soldier at his right, easily taken and swung at Jebe's head. It would be so easy. He would do it for Clarke. And then he'd be killed, but it doesn't matter.

His eyes fall on her body, still lying where he had let her rest, and it suddenly occurs to him that he's not so sure he would be doing it for _her_.

And then something else occurs to him—something Clarke asked him to do, something he can't do if he's dead.

Bellamy makes his decision in a split second. Rubbing his wrists slowly, he stands and turns to Temujin, who's watching him warily. "He killed my wife."

"No, she got in the way," Jebe insists from behind them. Bellamy is satisfied hearing his voice is a little garbled. Maybe he was able to knock out a few teeth after all.

In any case, Bellamy arches a brow at the Khan. "Then you realize he was trying to kill me."

The Khan inclines his head in acknowledgement. "He'll be punished too." But they both know that's not enough. "And demoted."

"There are two more things I want," Bellamy begins, but the Khan interrupts him with a curious look in his eye.

"You really loved her, didn't you?"

 _Yes_ , Bellamy wants to cry. He loved her, and he loves her, and he fears he will love her until the end of time.

But he ignores the question and continues stoically. "One is I don't want to be your general anymore." His half-brother blinks, but Bellamy plunges on. "I'm done with it. I'm never going to war for you again."

The Khan regards him seriously. "You have my word. I rely on you more for advising matters anyhow."

"The second is," Bellamy goes on hoarsely, thinking of Clarke, and her gold-spun hair, and the little boy with the same hair waiting in the tent, unaware that he's lost another parent. "My _son_ …"

 _._

 _When I don't touch you it's a mistake in any life, in each place and forever._ — Bob Hicok

* * *

 **A/N:If you made it to the end of this, I consider it a win haha. Next up is witch hunts, the Spanish colonizing the Philippines and the golden age of piracy. Also, Clarke tries to fix their current situation and only ends up fucking them both over in new and unique ways. Stick around to learn specifics lmao.**

 **Meanwhile, I really hope you'll consider leaving a review! Because reviews (of any length!) are my lifeblood and I look forward to them SO much. :)**

 **you can also find me at wellsjahasghost on tumblr**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A big thanks to Sjaan (readymachine) and MJ (wellamyblake) for beta-ing the hell out of this. MVPs.**

 **A big thanks to everyone who left reviews on the last chapter. MVPs.**

 **A big "screw you" to myself because this chapter is nearly 30k, way longer than it was supposed to be. Goddamnit.**

* * *

— 1429: VALAIS (NOW PART OF SWITZERLAND) —

Her name is Claude, and she loves girls.

"Claude, Claude, Claude," Mary, the girl she's currently loving, giggles as she crowds her against the bookshelf. They're in the dark back room of Valais's town library, a room full of dusty archives that no one ever really goes in. "I'm supposed to be working."

"So am I," Claude laughs against her mouth. She's a clerk for the court in Valais, and she's got quite a few case transcripts to polish before she can hand them over to the librarian to archive. And yet, she's here. Kissing Mary and clacking their teeth together and dissolving into giggles.

Without warning, the door opens.

Claude freezes. Within the second, she rips herself away from Mary and takes several rapid steps back, but she knows it's too late. They've been caught.

Her heart rate calms immediately when she realizes it's just Beau, the librarian.

Then her heart rate kicks up again because _hello_ , it's Beau.

Beau, of course, doesn't have the same silly thoughts she does. He stares hard at the two of them and their clearly dishevelled state. His lips are pursed in a way that screams _Again_?

Claude shrugs, not very apologetic, but Mary looks down at her shoes.

"Mary," Beau says meaningfully, "there's plenty of books that need to be re-shelved up front, you know."

Mary looks up, nods fast— a blush still fast on her cheeks, and gives Claude one last look. Claude smiles slowly at her, and the other girl slips past Beau. Beau folds his arms and looks at Claude. Claude casually looks at the ceiling like she doesn't notice his scrutiny.

He speaks after a minute of letting her squirm, words slow and deep and measured. "This is the second time this week I'm finding you distracting Mary from her work."

Claude lowers her gaze to his. His expression is stern, but she's not bothered by it. "We both know that's not the problem here."

"You're right," he replies, uncrossing his arms. He glances behind him as if expecting to find someone there before adding, "You need to be more careful."

She looks at him with a quirked up eyebrow. He goes on, voice steady and slow.

"You're a young woman who lives by herself, and you heal people too well. You don't want to add 'kissing girls' to the list of things people think you're odd for."

Claude huffs, examining her fingernails. "I keep trying to tell them, all I do is wash my hands before touching the patient, unlike the rest of the doctors around here."

He ignores this. "All it takes is one reason. And then you know what happens. They use it as a reason to execute you for being a witch."

She ponders this. He's a scholar, probably the most educated person in town, so she has to ask. "So you don't believe the people they're executing are actually witches?"

"Do you?" he simply returns, giving her a meaningful look.

She sighs and purses her lips. She's sat through more witch trials than she can count, diligently recording the witches' pleas and the accusations thrown around in court. It's hard not to form her own opinions. She's been surprised more than once since the beginning of the witch hunts at the outcomes; people she'd never have guessed for a witch being condemned. Beau's skepticism confirms her own suspicions. "I'll be more careful," she mutters, stuffing her hands into the pockets of her dress. He nods, apparently satisfied, and although he doesn't look smug about her relenting she feels the need to jab, "I miss the _old_ librarian."

"Because he never got up from his desk and never knew what you were up to at his place of work?" His lips finally tug into something of a smile.

She smirks. "Why _do_ you get up from your desk?"

"I saw you slip in here," he says, amusement clear in his eyes. "Don't think I haven't noticed you didn't give me the latest transcripts yet."

She rolls her eyes with exasperation but offers no answer.

"Who knows, maybe one day you'll get lucky and I'll go the same way as him."

Her eyes snap back to his sharply. She can tell he's joking of course, but it's not funny to her. Despite his tendency to boss her around, Beau is a good man. A quiet one, and a trustworthy one. Claude found that out the first time that he caught her with a girl— he'd left immediately, and she'd been scared to death that he'd tell— but when she'd gathered the courage to leave the house the next day, no one looked at her differently. Not even him.

And so he gained her respect.

With time, her affection for him has grown. And she's not blind, he's only a few years older than her and he's very _nice-looking_. So yes, she might like him in other ways, which may or may not be another reason she doesn't want him dead.

When she doesn't give him a snappy retort like usual, his smile fades and he takes a step closer. "You alright?" He's serious again, and his fingers reach out to touch her shoulder lightly.

She realizes she must have a distressed expression, imagining him being burned at the stake. "Nothing." She clears her throat and studies her shoes. "I just— I was thinking about him. The old librarian. How he died."

He sighs and squeezes her shoulder. "I'm sorry."

The old librarian was elderly, could hardly even see a few feet in front of him. But apparently three people pointed him out as indulging in witchcraft, killing their animals in the middle of the night—and three accusations were all it took to get arrested. Claude doesn't know the details, but he'd confessed to it immediately, probably to save himself the pain of torture, and was killed the next day. And he was only one of the first. Thinking about it still makes her stomach churn, even though it was almost a year ago.

She doesn't want his sympathy, though, so she shrugs, trying to play it off. "I didn't know him that well. The only times I talked to him was to give him transcripts." She realizes belatedly how close Beau is standing in his effort to comfort her. In lifting her head, she nearly bumps into his, and maybe he realizes it too, because he takes a large step back as soon as their eyes connect. The room is rather dark, but she thinks he might be blushing slightly.

She reminds herself, again, that he's _engaged_.

—

Claude marches into the library right before a court session to slap a pile of transcripts on Beau's desk. "There." He doesn't even look up from whatever he's scribbling.

"These are a month late."

"Why do you always act like you're above me?" she retorts good-naturedly. "I've been the court clerk for years. _You're_ the new one. I should be criticizing _you_."

He looks up at that, eyes twinkling. "Go on, then." She blinks. "Criticize me."

She puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. His smile grows wider the longer the silence goes, which irritates her more.

The thing is, Beau does a very thorough job. On everything. The library is always neat, and she can tell how much care and love he puts into organizing and cleaning and fixing the binding of books that have been returned falling apart. She _admires_ how hard he works.

"Your hair's always a mess," she eventually barks at him, and he actually chuckles at that, stretching his arms over his head.

"That right?"

" _Yes_ ," she replies, adamant. "Don't you own a comb? It's all over the place, all the time."

He runs a hand through his hair, now looking mildly affronted. "It's naturally like this."

"I'm sure it is, when you roll out of bed in the morning."

"I'm wounded." He shakes his head fondly and bends back to his book, apparently done with humouring her. "Don't you have somewhere to be?"

Oh. She's late for the court session. She sends him an evil look and heads for the front door.

"Hey, Claude," he calls gently before she can exit. "I'd rather you recorded the transcripts neatly than had them delivered on time. You do a good job."

She whips her head back to see him smiling at her. Her cheeks warm, but she hopes the distance between them disguises it. "I changed my mind. I guess your hair looks alright then." His chuckle is the last thing she hears before she leaves.

When she slides into her seat in court a few minutes later, she earns a few nasty looks from the prosecutor, but nothing she's not used to. She opens her bag and throws her fresh parchment on the desk, barely noticing who else is there in her hurry to get organized.

When she straightens up, she locks eyes with someone in the audience. Mary's there, eyes wide and frantic.

Why would Mary be here? Claude thinks to herself. She usually steers clear of court proceedings. And even if she'd decided to switch things up, why does she look so terrified?

Unless… Claude's eyes drift to the front and fix on Mary's mother, pale and trembling in front of the prosecutor who is now announcing that with the scribe here, they can finally get on with the day's _witch trial_.

—

Claude leaves the courtroom in shock afterwards, her hands trembling as they clutch onto her carefully written transcripts full of Mary's mother's denials of each accusation. She knows what happens next. Torture.

There were other witches on trial today as well; a man and a woman, both of whom confessed shortly after the questioning began, but Mary's mother had stayed adamant the whole time. Even as the testimonies started—people saying she'd bewitched them. But the more she denied it, the more the prosecutor pushed. One witness had said that she'd been bewitched to not believe she was a witch so she wouldn't be able to point out other witches, which was one of many things Claude had found ridiculous. It's all so ridiculous.

But then she spots Mary at the edge of the crowd afterwards, looking lost, and knows that whatever she's feeling is nothing compared to her.

Mary is inconsolable.

"We'll save her," Claude says wildly when she reaches her, but Mary jerks away from her touch.

"Not everything is a game you canbreak the rules for, Claude," she spits, and her eyes are bright with anger and tears. "My mother will be tortured until she confesses, and if we try to help her, it's the same for us."

"Mary—"

"I don't want to hear it!" Mary shouts. Claude reels back and several people look their way; Mary's not usually one to raise her voice. Gulping in shuddering breaths for air, Mary stomps away, leaving Claude's heart aching for her.

—

Claude tries to give her space, but she can't stay away from the library. Beau's at his desk, flipping through some old documents, and looks up when she enters.

"Mary's not here," he tells her before she can open her mouth. "I gave her time off."

She hugs herself. "Oh." He looks at her another moment, then turns back to his work. Claude can't bring herself to leave because, in her loneliness and fear, Beau's presence is somehow soothing to her soul. Maybe it's something about the warmth in his gaze, or just the fact that she knows she can trust him, but he makes her feel grounded in an unsteady world.

"You didn't know about her mother's trial, did you?" she asks him.

He shakes his head slowly, brow furrowing. "I would've been there," he says quietly. "I would've testified for her character." He sounds regretful.

She shakes her head firmly. "There wouldn't have been anything you could do. There were too many testifying against." Her lips flatten in disgust at the memory. "That horrid neighbour of hers, Mrs. Sampson, for starters."

"That doesn't surprise me," Beau says darkly. "Mary told me that woman has been trying to buy their family land for years but her mother doesn't want to sell it. A little too convenient that Mary's mother would be out of the picture after this, isn't it?"

Claude huffs in agreement, folding her arms. Her whole body is thrumming with frustration. None of this is _fair_.

"I'm sure Mary's at home," he says, jarring her out of her thoughts. She blinks a few times, realizing he's watching her curiously. "Just be careful if you're going there."

"I appreciate you caring about my safety," she replies, "but I want to help Mary, not console her." She hops on his desk to sit, and he straightens up.

"You want to help her mother escape." His voice is flat.

She looks at him pleadingly. "Can't we? Isn't there something we can do?"

"No."

Her jaw drops. "Beau—"

He slams his book shut and speaks tersely. "She's being held in the jail. She's guarded around the clock, until she either confesses and dies, or is tortured until she dies. Anyone seen attempting to help a condemned witch will be suspected of witchcraft themselves. There is nothing you can do, Claude. End of discussion. Keep your head down."

"That's the _last_ thing I want to do!"

"I know. But you have to. I'm…" He trails off a moment, and she watches with fascination as his jaw works. He glances to the side as he admits, "I'm worried about you."

Well, that intrigues her. It also makes her heart sing because it means Beau doesn't just see her as a colleague; he _cares_ , and there aren't many people who have cared about her in her life, not since her parents died. But his words catch up with her. "Are… Are people talking about me too?"

"People are always talking about you," Beau says, with a mix of exasperation and fondness. Claude takes his statement with a nod. It's true. She's too free-spirited, too wild, to be considered anything but a local oddity. "But this is different. Please, Claude. Be careful. I don't want you to be next."

Now he's the one being pleading with her, and she's taken aback a little by the force of emotion in his voice. "I won't be," she finds herself saying, to hide her surprise. "They won't catch me. I promise I'll be more stealthy about bewitching people from now on," she teases.

He smiles slightly, leaning over the desk. "You're already stealthy enough on that front, trust me."

Before she can process that comment, the door opens and both of them turn their heads. It's a woman with long, glossy dark hair and green eyes, and there's a grace to her walk that Claude could never possess. Beau's expression changes, softening completely upon the sight of her.

"Jane," he greets her, pushing off his desk to walk over to her and kiss her on the cheek. Claude feels a pit settle in her stomach and pretends she doesn't know what it is.

Jane smiles at Beau and turns to Claude. "Hello, Claude," she says with a smile. "I hope he's not boring you with long-winded stories about the Mongols again."

Despite herself, she feels herself smile, because Beau also smiles good-naturedly when Jane says that, and if he is happy, so is she. "Not yet," she replies, and hops off the desk. "I'd better leave before he gets any ideas." She gives him a quick glance— it hurts to look at him any longer than that, suddenly. "Good night."

His amusement fades all at once and he watches her seriously. "Stay safe, Claude." There's a warning in his voice she recognizes.

She chooses to ignore it.

—

But when she gets to the jail and asks to see Mary's mother, she's told that the witch has just confessed to her crimes. Claude gets to the town square just in time to see the end of the burning.

It's... horrific. Mary is nowhere to be seen.

She runs to Mary's home, bangs on the door. It's a small house, narrow, crammed between a larger one and a sweets shop. Her father opens the door, looking wary. When he sees it's just Claude, he relaxes slightly.

"What do you want?"

"Where's Mary? She wasn't at— she wasn't—" _She wasn't there to see her mother alive for the last time_.

His lips draw tight. He looks pained. "I didn't let her go see the burning. Neither of us went." His voice breaks slightly. "My wife— told us not to, you know. When she was taken. She knew it would happen, and she didn't want us to see it. I thought we should respect her last wishes." He covers his face with his hand. "It gave us extra time, anyway, to pack."

"Pack?" Claude repeats dumbly.

"Yes," he says softly. Claude marvels at how he's holding it together. "We're leaving town."

Exactly what Mrs. Sampson wants, Claude thinks to herself, but she just shakes her head fervently and puts her hands on her hips. "Let me see Mary."

"She doesn't want to see anyone."

"Just—"

The door slams in her face. She stares at it for a long minute before backing away. When she turns around, she realizes several people are staring at her. Probably wondering why she's been talking to the family of a witch.

Beau's warnings echo in her head.

She gulps, fear getting the better of her for once, and flees home for the remainder of the evening.

—

She stays indoors the next day, passing the time by polishing her court transcripts. There's a nervous energy in her bones still, and her mind won't stop whirring. It eventually gets to the point where she throws down her pen in frustration and heads out the door, and to the library. She needs— she doesn't know what she needs, but something in her heart tells her it's there.

When she walks in, he looks up and relaxes at the sight of her. He looks tired, she notes, more so than usual.

"Didn't you hear?" he says without waiting for her to speak. "Mary left—"

"I know," she interrupts. "I just…" She casts a look around the room, all the papers and books he has surrounded himself with in his attempts to sort them. He doesn't have Mary around to help him anymore. "Can I just stay here a while?"

She hates her voice for sounding so small, but he nods. She doesn't want his sympathy, and is about to say so, but then he adds, "Yeah, but don't just sit there. You can help me with the damn reshelving." He balances the stern sentence with a hint of a smile at the end, and that feeling sets into her heart again— the feeling of _safe_.

She spends the evening shelving books with him. It's a quiet few hours because he doesn't talk much, but she's not bored. She's comfortable with him. Every so often he'll pass by her through a narrow space between bookshelves and momentarily put his hand on her back, the brief touch a silent comfort that is exactly what Claude needs right now.

It's late at night when he catches her yawning and says, "You should go home. I'll finish up here."

Nodding tiredly, she backs towards the door. "You should get some rest too, you know." She knows despite his casualness, he can't be completely unaffected by what happened.

"I'm fine," he says.

Right. "Whatever you say. See you later, then."

"Wait." He turns a little on the ladder he's standing on, leaning against the bookshelf with a dusty rag in his hand. "Give me two minutes and I'll walk you home. It's late."

"No," she replies automatically, even though she'd like nothing better. "It's not far."

"This isn't negotiable." He starts climbing down the ladder, but then the front door opens and a dark-haired man steps in.

Beau's demeanor changes instantly but subtly, instantly guarded. "Mayor Hollis," he says politely. "What can I do for you at this time of night?"

He doesn't bother with pleasantries, barely sparing Claude a glance. "I need to see some transcripts from the witch trial yesterday."

Claude thanks every deity she knows of in that moment that she had polished off the transcripts early for once. As Beau becomes preoccupied with the Mayor, she slips out the back door, wondering what's so urgent that the council needs those transcripts this late at night.

It's so dark out that she bumps right into someone she didn't see at first.

"Oh, I'm sor—" she halts when she sees who it is.

Mary's mother.

It takes her a moment to register that, another moment for the fear to set in, and another for her mouth to open, lungs drawing in air to scream.

Despite looking surprised at the encounter, the woman's hand readily shoots out to clap over Claude's face.

Claude screams anyway, the sound muffled against the woman's hand. She tries to back away, but Mary's mother grabs her hand.

"Shh," she chastises. Claude stares at her, eyes wide with fear, heart pounding. Another long moment passes, while she examines how the woman in front of her looks so alive despite being executed in front of the town's eyes. Did it— did it even happen? Was it a dream? Or did Claude fall asleep in the library and she's dreaming right now?

Her hectic thought process distracts her, and apparently Mary's mother is satisfied she won't scream, because she removes her hand. "Don't scream," she warns. "I won't hurt you."

Claude draws in large gulps of air. "You're _dead_ ," she finally manages in something of a strangled, high-pitched tone. "Everyone saw you getting burned at the stake."

"People are seeing a lot of things these days," is the dark reply, and then a wide smile grows on the woman's face. "But what you saw, at least, was real."

"You're a real witch, aren't you? That's how you survived." Her voice is shaking. Her entire belief system has been turned upside down suddenly— she and Beau were wrong, there are witches in this town. And if what they say is true, witches work with the devil. She should be afraid. But instead, she's curious.

"An astute observation." Mary's mother grins, raising a hand and wiggling her fingers. A spark shoots from her fingertips.

Despite herself, Claude gasps and takes a step back, making the sign against evil that's been drilled into her by weekly masses since birth. The witch watches her do it with some amusement.

"Well, I must be on my way now. Good day, Miss Clarke." And just like that, the woman who was dead a few hours ago turns to walk away.

It takes her a few moments to process. "Wait," she says sharply. "What did you just call me?"

That gives the woman pause. "Miss Claude," she says. "Isn't that your name? I've heard my daughter say it enough times." She sneers and Claude wills herself not to blush at the implied meaning. And here she'd thought she'd been stealthy in her escapades.

"I should report you," she says, defiant.

Mary's mother turns around, a glint in her eye. "But you won't."

Claude crosses her arms. "Give me one reason why."

"One, because you hate the authorities around here. Two, you don't want to draw any more attention to yourself and your activities than you already have."

She doesn't have an answer to that, admittedly.

"Three," the witch goes on, and a small coy smile grows on her face as she looks Claude up and down, as if she can see something Claude can't, "because magic is the only reason you're even here." And she turns again, leaving Claude only a moment to register her words.

"What does that mean?" she asks, but the woman continues walking away into the darkness. Unthinkingly, she goes after her, catching her arm. "Wait. Explain what you meant. How is magic the reason I'm alive?"

Mary's mother hasn't turned towards her, but her shoulders begin to shake. At first, Claude wildly thinks she's crying— but when she speaks she realizes the witch is laughing, wheezing almost in the fervour of it. "Oh, dear," she chuckles, and whips around, so suddenly and so fast that Claude takes an involuntary step back. "You're just going to keep pestering me, aren't you?" She whips her hands out of her cloak, producing a small metal flask out of nowhere, and thrusts it into Claude's arms. "Hmm… Drink this. And all will become clear."

She looks down into the flask, opening the lid. It looks like water. She voices that thought.

"Drink it with the librarian," the witch adds without responding to her comment, and Claude's eyes shoot back up. She's smiling smugly. "The handsome one. Make sure he drinks it too."

"Why him?" Clarke manages. Her heart is thundering. This time, she can't fight the blush rising up her neck.

"Because he's like you."

"Like _me_?"

"Hmm," the witch agrees vaguely.

Claude looks back down into the flask, gives it an experimental sniff. It doesn't smell like anything. "What is it?"

"The truth," The witch replies mysteriously, but there's a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Good night, Miss Clarke."

As the witch takes a step back, Claude looks down at it, and back. "You could be poisoning me," she says slowly. "They say… they say witches work with the Devil."

Mary's mother throws back her head and laughs. "For such a supposed rebel, you sure are willing to eat up what they tell you, aren't you? It's not poison." She shrugs. "Even if it was, because of what you are, it wouldn't be able to destroy you."

"I—" She's barely able to keep up with this information. " _Destroy_ me?"

The witch waves a hand in a dismissive gesture. "It could kill you, yes. But destroy you? Nothing can, not really. Well," she mumbles pensively, almost as if to herself, "maybe _he_ can. I'm no expert. Now for the _last_ time, good night, Miss Claude."

She takes another step back, and Claude calls again, "Wait," because she's still got about a million questions, but the witch has seemingly melted into the darkness, gone, and when Claude reaches out to grab her again, her fingers close on nothing but cold evening air.

She stands there for a moment, wondering why she's actually considering tipping the flask back into her mouth. She never knew Mary's mother, but she survived being burned at the stake. That can't be the mark of a good person, can it?

But then she reasons that if people in this town knew what Claude liked to do with girls these days, they wouldn't think _she_ was a very good person either. So fuck them.

Decision made, she takes a long swig from the flask and makes a face. It's like water, but with a slight bitter edge that tingles unpleasantly far back on her tongue. Her vision goes blurry for a moment before sharpening painfully and, swaying on her feet, she turns to head back into the library.

Beau looks up in surprise when she enters. The mayor appears to be long gone, presumably with the transcripts he needed, and he's back to carrying books to their location. "Did you forget something?"

"No," she says slowly, but for some reason, while looking at his face, the answer suddenly strikes her as a lie. "What did Hollis want?"

"Mary's mother's court transcripts," he replies, frowning. "He wouldn't tell me the reason. Seemed serious, though."

Having witnessed what she did, Claude can imagine why.

When she doesn't answer, he tilts his head at her and comes closer. She feels like she can feel his warmth right up against her skin, even though he's standing a respectable distance away. "You okay?" he asks.

Her eyes snap up to his. She doesn't feel much different, actually. The tingling sensation has spread from the back of her tongue to the rest of her mouth and is expanding it's reach— she's tingly all over. But there's no sudden realization. Maybe he has to drink it, too, for it to work. She extends her hand, showing him the flask. "I'm great. Are you thirsty?"

His eyebrows raise. "What is that?" He sounds curious and maybe a little wary.

She debates telling him. But what could she say? That witches were real and she'd just encountered one outside who'd handed her a flask? He hadn't seen it with his own two eyes. He'd think she'd finally lost it, and he wouldn't drink it. He'd probably take it away and throw it out. Throw out her chance of finding out what the hell the witch was talking about.

Feeling like a terrible person, she takes another sip of it and then tips the flask at him. "Why don't you take a sip and find out?" she asks in lieu of answering.

He examines her another minute before sighing. "You're a little young for alcohol," he remarks, a hint of disapproval in his voice, but he plucks the flask out of her hands. She doesn't correct him. She just watches while he takes a long draught of it. He must be more shaken by the whole Mary situation than he wants to admit.

His expression screws up a bit. "That's not vodka."

"No," she replies, watching him closely as he hands it back. He doesn't look any different, or like he's had any realizations. And she feels disappointment settling like a pit in her stomach, because there's no revelation coming to her either. She looks down at the flask and then back up. His dark eyes are regarding her with open curiosity now, and he crosses his arms across his chest. She tries not to notice how the muscles in his forearms are thrown into stark relief.

She wonders if he's starting to tingle as much as she is. "Are you planning on telling me what it is?" he says now, and she thinks she might be imagining it but— is his voice a little deeper?

She opens her mouth but— how would she be able to explain this to him? That Mary's mother was just outside, apparently unharmed from her execution, and a witch to boot, one that had given her a drink that would reveal all the secrets of Claude's past if she only shared it with him?

Because it's done nothing so far. Except given her a buzz. But it's not a buzz that she'd associate with alcohol. "Never mind," she sighs, hoping he'll just chalk it up to one of her eccentricities.

As she watches, he blinks a few times before shaking his head slightly as if to clear it. He clears his throat and looks away from her— there's definitely a blush on his high cheekbones now. She watches with interest as he picks up another book from the cart, turning back towards the shelf. "Claude. What did you just give me?" He asks with his back turned to her, voice carefully measured.

She leans against the table and watches him work. Helplessly, her eyes travel down the length of his lithe body, and all at once she feels that constant tingling centralize in one... very specific place of her body.

Oh.

"I don't know. Someone gave it to me," she hears herself say in a breathy voice. He wheels around, outrage evident, leaving them almost chest to chest in the narrow space.

"You just _drank_ something that someone gave you in the middle of the night—" Claude is too slow dragging her gaze from his lower half and when she meets his eyes, she knows he's noticed.

He licks his lips. "Claude." There's a familiar warning in his utterance of her name, but there's more than that.

There's want.

His deep, ragged voice thrums through her whole body. She's fighting herself with any semblance of control she has left, because suddenly all she wants to do is run her hands down his body—

"Don't," he warns. His hands twitch at his sides. But he's not stepping back.

And she's never been one to step away from a challenge. "I won't," she promises sweetly. His jaw ticks. She wants to put her lips on him; the desire fills her head until there's nothing left in it. He's standing too close. Something like a cross between a sigh and a moan passes her lips, and she rubs her thighs together feverishly.

This time, it's _his_ gaze that shoots downwards, and when it comes back there's no warning in his eyes, just want.

He surges forward, and she's ready when their mouths crash together.

And then they're kissing furiously in the dim lights of the library.

Clarke has always known Beau as a gentle, sweet man. But there's nothing gentle about the way he hauls her closer with a growl or the way her fingers dig into his muscled shoulders, or the way he bites her lower lip to make her open up and then shoves his tongue into her mouth. There's nothing sweet about the way they stumble against the table together and— with a wicked delight she notes— his hands on her waist slide down her back to her ass, squeezing roughly before pulling her flush against him.

God, she can't seem to stop touching him. There's so much skin to get her hands on. She pulls at his shirt as he mouths at her neck, untucking it and sliding her hands under. His hands slide down to the backs of her thighs, lifting her onto the table, nudging her legs apart brusquely with his knee. She can't help but rut against his thigh a bit for the brief moment that it's there, and he groans a curse that only gets her hotter.

And then— there's a flash of light behind her eyelids.

She cries out from the suddenness of it, pulling away from him. He makes a similar sound, wrenching himself away from her and backing away.

And Claude _remembers_.

Dragging his body up a mountain.

Playing backgammon.

Jumping in front of a sword meant for him.

She remembers her name is Clarke.

The moment she opens her eyes, Beau is staring back, pupils still blown from desire but a different kind of longing in his voice. He's still Beau, but… no. He's Bellamy. "Clarke?" he asks, voice ragged. "Is that really you?"

She's overcome with something clogging her throat, and she can only nod.

He strokes her cheek with his thumb, leans into her. He presses his forehead against hers, looking into her eyes like he can't believe she's there. She imagines she probably has a similar expression on her face.

She tried so valiantly to hate Bellamy in the last life, but he was always there making it difficult. Playing with her son like her child was his own, touching her in that gentle way of his, and defending those robbers from the other generals— trying to be better than he'd been at Kiev. And in those last moments more than any other, she recognized her lover from another lifetime in Belgutei. And there was absolutely no way she could have let him die. Not again.

"Bellamy," she finally whispers. Her hands slide up his chest, up to clutch his collar, to cup the warm skin of his throat, feeling him swallow against her hand.

And then, astoundingly, he buries his face into the crook of her shoulder and starts to _cry_.

"You died in front of me," he cries, holding onto her like a lifeline. "You died, Clarke."

Tears prickling in her own eyes, she cradles his head and strokes his messy hair gently. "Now you know what it feels like."

He laughs tearfully. "I could've lived without knowing." He straightens a little to kiss her again, sweeter and slower, and she welcomes the feeling of his lips, so familiar as they suddenly are.

They part and he opens his mouth, but Clarke beats him to it. "Roman? Did you— "

He doesn't seem to like the question. "Do you really even have to ask?" He leans in to kiss her again, a slightly biting one that stings against her lower lip. "He was a funny kid. Sharp too. He grew up to be a better man than me." He sounds only proud saying this, but Clarke feels a pang in her chest.

She regrets many of the things she said to him in their past life. She has no doubt that he took care of her son. That's just the kind of person he is. "You're a good man too, Bellamy," she says a little sadly, because she's unsure that he'll ever believe it.

But he just narrows his eyes at her. "Why the hell did you jump in front of Jebe's sword?"

"I couldn't," she tries to say, takes a deep breath and goes on. "I couldn't watch you die again."

"You could've just closed your eyes and saved yourself the trouble."

She ignores his attempt at humour, searching for the right words to express that she couldn't, she just _couldn't_ bear to live in a world without him in it, for the third time in a row. "It hurt too much," she admits quietly.

"I was so angry at you for doing that, you know. For such a long time." He sounds like he still kind of is.

"You're such a goddamn hero," she retorts, rolling her eyes, and kisses him again, just because she can. And then again, just because she wants to. And then it's ferocious all over again, the familiar heat returning to Clarke's belly. She pulls at his belt, bringing him flush against her, and rolls her hips against his. He groans, tipping his head against hers.

"I thought you hated me."

"I was trying to," she says breathlessly, grabbing his large hand from between their bodies, where it's pressed almost indecisively against her lower stomach, and guiding it down to between her legs, simultaneously hiking up her dress. "But I've decided, bygones."

He chuckles low. "Bygones?" He wiggles his fingers against her underwear, and she practically pants. His voice goes gravelly as he touches her through the slick material, light and teasing. "Aw, Clarke, is this all you wanted me for?" Clarke arches her back, hands braced behind her against the desk, and he takes the opportunity to press his mouth to her neck. Excitement is mounting in her, just at the impact of his talking— she hasn't had him in so long, and the time separating them has done nothing to stop her attraction to him. He runs the edge of his blunt nail against her through the fabric, and she can't help but thrust into his hand. He laughs against her skin, free hand sliding up her back, and then—

He stops.

He pauses in his assault of her throat, and his fingers pause in their teasing, and she whines, thrusting her hips shallowly into his palm.

"Come _on_ , Bellamy—"

He pulls away, leaving her flushed and confused on the desk.

He looks equally flushed and bewildered, hair rumpled from Clarke's ministrations. She can't help but feel a little smug, but far less so when he takes a step back, the hand that was up her skirt just moments ago now flexing at his side. "I can't do this." He sounds pained.

She follows him, pressing against him and palming his bulge that's evident in his pants. "Are you _sure_?"

He pushes her hand away with a choked sound. "Stop, Clarke. I've got someone in my life already."

 _Jane_.

Clarke feels suddenly rather like she's been doused in cold water. She stares at him, at his swollen red lips, his messy hair, his shirt halfway unbuttoned and untucked, and feels a terribly heavy guilt start to pull at her stomach.

"I…" The urge to throw up rises up her throat, and she takes a step back.

He watches her reaction, his dark gaze full of nothing but conflict whereas only a minute ago it was only joy. "Clarke," he says, and his voice is low and steady and sad, "I love her."

"Do you love me?" The words fly out of her mouth before she can stop them.

He levels her with a flat look, because they both know how selfish that question is. "Did you love me, in the last life?" She opens her mouth to say yes, but he goes on. "Did you let that stop you?"

She closes her mouth.

"Fuck, Clarke," he sighs. "I… I've always wanted to be with you, but you said it yourself— the people in our lives _matter_."

He's right. The people that they live with matter just as much as the two of them do to each other. And that just makes it a whole hell of a lot more complicated. Clarke can't _believe_ another woman now has a claim on Bellamy— on part of his heart— when _she_ was there first. And she knows that's such a childish way to think but she can't stop herself.

There's also a frightened part of her that wonders— just because he loved her first, doesn't mean that she's the one he was meant for. After all, in their first life, theirs was an arranged marriage they both accepted as duty; the feelings came later.

Maybe the feelings were only conditional on situation. Maybe Jane is just a better match for him. The thought makes her stomach curdle.

Bellamy rubs his face with a hand, and she crosses her arms and closes her legs tightly, trying to ignore whatever leftover throbbing is there. It's almost a little ridiculous how affected she is—

Her eyes fall on the flask, now abandoned on its side on the table, and it all clicks.

She must have made some kind of noise, because Bellamy looks at her sharply. "What?"

"Witch," Clarke manages, pointing at the flask. "A witch gave me that."

His eyes widen. "A— a real witch?" He sounds dubious, and Clarke reminds herself she's the only one of the two of them who's had any real encounters with magical creatures.

"Mary's mother," she explains. "She survived the execution. That's probably why Hollis was so panicked. She said it'd… help us understand our pasts, but it just made me want to…" her voice dies away, a little embarrassed. She's having vivid memory flashes from another life of his lean, tan body moving over hers.

"I get it," Bellamy he cuts her off, voice strained. The throbbing between her legs intensifies at how gravelly his voice is. She has a feeling he's being assaulted with the same visions. She closes her legs tighter.

"It was just to get us to kiss." Her lips tighten. "In a twisted way." Which fits well with what she knows of these magicians, seeing as how granting wishes _in a twisted way_ is how she and Bellamy ended up in this situation in the first place.

Apparently Bellamy is thinking the same thing. "What is it with you?" he mutters. Her head snaps back up.

"Excuse me?"

"Why can't you just leave things alone?" He looks frustrated. "Now we're stuck in this situation again—"

"How was I supposed to know—"

He sounds agitated. "I cheated on my—"

"Don't put this on _me_ , you kissed me back—"

He slams his fist against the bookshelf, making it shake. "Dammit, Clarke!" Clarke doesn't bat an eye as he glares at her. "I swear to God, sometimes I _really_ wish you'd just let us both die the first time."

Silence.

His words hit her harder than she would've thought. Probably because she's thought the same. Because now they're stuck in this world forever, in a world that seems determined to keep them apart, and that prospect seems more hellish than whatever is waiting for her in the afterlife.

Her surprise must show on her face, because Bellamy's eyes soften, but he doesn't take the words back. Clarke puts her hands on her hips and narrows her eyes. "Fuck you, Bellamy."

His lips twist into an ugly smile. His gaze is hard again. "Not in this lifetime, princess."

That does it. She turns on the heel and leaves the library without looking back, taking care to slam the door as hard as she can.

She's nearly in tears as she walks furiously down the darkened path to the village.

 _Not in this lifetime, princess_. The words, designed to grate on her nerves, do their job, and she stomps down the path with even more anger than before. She hates him. No, she hates this situation. He's not making it any better.

A thought occurs to her as she passes the street that leads to Mary's old house. Her steps falter.

She twists on the heel and starts going in a different direction instead.

—

The windows of Mary's house are dark, but Clarke hesitates barely a moment before striding to the door and pushing experimentally.

It doesn't budge. Clarke gives a look around the street— it's pretty abandoned at this time of night— and hip-checks the door with all her might. It finally gives, letting Clarke stumble inside.

Moonlight streams into the living room she enters, and it takes her a moment for her eyes to adjust. When she does, she clears her throat and whispers, "Hello?"

Silence.

"I know you're here," Clarke adds. She has to be. Where else would Mary's mother go? She'd be looking for—

"Where's my daughter?"

Clarke wheels around. In a corner of the room near the window is the witch. She looks disgruntled.

"Mary?" Clarke shrugs. "I'll tell you if you do something for me."

"Don't play with me, girl."

Clarke scoffs. "That's kind of rich of you to say, don't you think?"

The witch cocks her head, examining Clarke for a moment, before a wicked smile crosses her face. "Oh, you took the potion— Excellent. Reunited at last?" There's a sly, lecherous glint to her eyes.

It brings a scowl to Clarke's face. "That was a sick thing for you to do."

"No thank-you's?" The witch shakes her head. "Ungrateful, Clarke."

Clarke reels in her next retort with some difficulty. She's not here to exchange snappy comments. "The djinn that made us reincarnate did something else to us, didn't she?"

The witch stares at her in surprise— finally, finally caught off guard.

"What makes you think something like that?" The witch finally asks.

Clarke scoffs. "Because what are the chances of this happening to us over and over! Something always happens that keeps us apart. It's happened too many times to be coincidence now. The djinn must've put a curse on us, too. I want you to remove it." She lifts her chin defiantly.

Mary's mother studies her and laughs. "Oh, you sad child. You're actually serious." She leans forward conspiratorially. "Has it ever occurred to you that life itself is the curse?"

Clarke stares back. "That's ridiculous."

The witch shrugs. "Believe it or not, it's coincidence." She examines her fingernails. "I mean, you could easily kill his pretty fiance and have him all to yourself. There's no curse at work, just your own choices."

"I don't believe that," Clarke says adamantly.

"You don't _want_ to," the witch corrects, straightening. She appears bored of the conversation already.

"I still need answers. Don't you dare leave again," Clarke hisses, taking a step forward. The move throws her into the moonlight streaming through the window, and the witch all at once pales, eyes widening.

"What?" Clarke asks, uneasy. The witch's mouth has dropped open as she takes in something Clarke can't see.

"Your aura," the witch manages. "I… I didn't notice…" She sounds shaken.

"Tell me what it is!" Clarke shouts, tired of being toyed with.

"I don't know!" The witch says, sounding almost panicked. "I didn't think that my potion would… it looks as if your djinn's magic is incompatible with mine. It did something to you. I don't know what. I _don't_ ," she reiterates when Clarke takes another step forward. "But something is different about you. That's all I know, truly. Now please, tell me where my daughter is."

Clarke can tell the witch is telling the truth for once— there's no slyness to her tone now, she's caught off guard and genuinely so. Still, she debates withholding the information.

In the end, she says, "I'm only telling you so that Mary can have her mother back." The witch nods rapidly, and Clarke tells her where Mary and her father have moved to.

"Are you sure you don't know anything about what you saw in my— my aura?" she asks again afterwards.

The witch shakes her head slowly. "Best of luck, Miss Clarke." And then she disappears. Literally, she disappears into the shadows, leaving a lingering cloud of smoke stirring at Clarke's feet and her last words: "I have a feeling you'll need it."

—

Clarke is uneasy after the witch's last words. She comes back to Mary's house the next day, hoping to run into Mary's mother, but she has no luck. It looks like the witch isn't coming back.

With nothing much else to do, she lays low for the next few days, only half paying attention during the witch trials, which are continuing in a frenzy.

But she can't stay away from Bellamy for long. Eventually she finds her feet carrying her back to the library.

She enters, and though the candles flicker their hello, no one appears to be there. "Bellamy?" she calls, taking further steps in. There are books piled messily on the table. A thin layer of dust on his workbench. He hasn't had an assistant around for a week, but it's not like him to leave things in disarray like this.

She calls his name again and gets no response. She's about to leave when she's seized with a sudden hunch, and makes her way to the back room of the library, where town archives are stored, where Bellamy often used to catch Clarke in inappropriate situations.

She pushes the door open and now she notices the room is dimly lit on the inside by a singular candle. Lounging in the desk chair, with his feet propped up on the table, is Bellamy.

He doesn't look up when she enters, choosing instead to continue staring blankly at the bottle held loosely in his hand. It's mostly empty. Clarke glances to the side and notices several more bottles there.

She puts her hands on her hips and attempts a joke. "I thought _I_ was the alcoholic in our relationship."

His eyes flicker up, no surprise registering in them. Despite all his studious ignoring of her, he'd known the moment she walked into the room. Moment she walked into the library building, probably.

"Times have changed," he remarks somewhat sardonically as he lifts the bottle to his lips. She reaches forward and snatches it from him. His eyes snap up to her in annoyance, but she doesn't care. She doesn't like seeing him like this. "Give it back," he says.

"Do you think Jane would approve of you drinking like this?"

His lips twist into a grimace. Then: "I told her, you know."

That stops Clarke short. It's just enough hesitation for him to grab the bottle back from her hand. She doesn't try to fight him.

"Told her?" she repeats, sorting through that in her head. "You mean…"

He downs whatever's left in the bottle. "I told her what happened between the two of us."

"Why?" Clarke can't help but ask dumbly.

He glares at her. "Clarke, I can't marry her otherwise. She had to know we… kissed."

Clarke swallows this information down with difficulty. "What else did you tell her?"

He resumes staring off into space. "Nothing."

"Just that you cheated on her?" Silence. "You didn't try to tell her why? The potion? Anything?"

"Clarke," he interrupts. "Don't be stupid. And besides, the potions don't matter. Our history doesn't matter. What matters is I kissed you while I was engaged to her, and that's all she had to know."

Clarke rocks back on her heels with a sigh. Although she and him deal with guilt in different ways, she recognizes this as typical Bellamy behavior. Clarke suspects he intentionally told Jane the half-truth— the ugliest part of it— because he felt he deserved punishment, not because he didn't think Jane would believe the whole story.

"So what happened?" She already knows the answer.

"She said she needed time away." Bellamy shrugs, holds up something in his hand. On closer inspection Clarke realizes it's Jane's engagement ring.

Clarke feels that familiar guilt in her gut again. Jane, as far as she can tell, is a good woman. She doesn't deserve this. "She would've understood if you explained, you know. You just made it look worse than it was."

He says nothing.

"She would've wanted the whole truth."

He lets out a snort. "Sure. I'll go right now and tell her you were my wife four hundred years ago and that we've been reincarnated since then, Clarke. That'll go over real well."

That reminds Clarke of what she came here to say, and she abandons the topic to steel herself. He watches wearily.

"You did something," he guesses.

Clarke folds her arms. She tells him. His reaction is about what she expects.

By the time she's finished her story, he's leaning forward, no longer with his boots up on his desk, looking suddenly very lucid. "She said what?"

"You heard me."

"Clarke, you—" He shakes his head, as if unable to fathom the depth of her stupidity, which pisses her off. "Haven't you learned? Why would you even go looking for her again? Witches can't be trusted."

"Trust me, I know," she hisses. "But I wanted answers. And all I got were more questions." She wraps her arms around herself.

"You should've talked to me before you went to her."

Clarke narrows her eyes, but then she realizes he just sounds sad. And she deflates as well. "You're not angry?"

"I should be." He sighs and looks up. "But Clarke, I'm tired of it. I'm tired of fighting with you. And I hate feeling that way."

Despite his gentle words, she feels very small and chastised in that instant. "I'm sorry," she whispers, coming closer to sit on the edge of the desk. "I should've asked you."

"It's okay."

"It's not," she insists regretfully, toying with the edge of her skirt. "Making you drink that potion without telling you where it came from, going to talk to her afterwards— I should have talked to you first. But I just… I want us to have that happy ending, Bellamy. I want that so badly." She shakes her head and swallows. "I'm sorry. This was stupid of me."

"You're not stupid," he responds automatically. But his eyes look at her more softly after her apology. He reaches out a hand suddenly. Clarke stares down at it, how it's outstretched towards her with the palm up. Hesitantly, she looks at him and slides her hand into his. It's warm, calloused, firm against her skin, and she instantly feels calm wash over her. "Whatever happens, we'll deal with it." He squeezes her hand momentarily before letting go.

Watching him resume staring into space, she's suddenly seized with the urge to tell him she loves him. But she keeps her mouth shut. What good would that do?

"I didn't know you liked women," he says suddenly. She's confused until he clarifies, "Romantically, I mean."

She blinks. Oh. Mary. Among others, she supposes. "I didn't know in my first life either," she confesses. "I guess it took me a few centuries to figure out." He nods thoughtfully, not looking at her, and she feels the need to add, "I still like men too."

A wry smile crosses his lips. "Yeah, I figured that part out."

A flush rises to her cheeks. But he's still kind of half-smiling, and she pushes at his shoulder with a huff. The tension seeps away.

—

Time passes, and Clarke still feels bad about what happened. She wants to fix everything somehow, but there's nothing she can do about their current magical dilemma. But maybe there's something else she can do for Bellamy.

She thinks about going to talk to Jane about what happened, but something tells her Bellamy wouldn't take kindly to her meddling in his private life. It's strange to think of it as something separate— because there's a part of her, a part that she doesn't think will ever go away, that still sees him as her husband, someone who shares his private life with _her_.

"Are you going to wait for her forever?" she asks one night, while she's helping him with alphabetizing scrolls. He's not paying her to do work for him, although he offered. She just wanted to help him out.

He pauses in the middle of scrawling something down, and she realizes her careless wording too late. She quickly tries to gloss over it.

"I mean, when are you going to go talk to Jane again?"

He resumes writing. "I'm not. I'm giving her time. When— if— she's ready, she'll come back."

"What if Jane doesn't want to come back to you?"

"Then that's the way it has to be," he says gravely, throwing down his pen and rolling up the paper to toss into a growing pile of documents to be archived. He reaches for another blank piece of parchment. "I'm not going to chase her when she doesn't want me."

"You think you don't deserve her after what happened."

He looks up from his work to cast her a guarded look, eyes flickering down her body in an almost unnoticeable way, but Clarke knows him too well not to notice. "And you think you're a mind reader now."

Clarke persists. "I see Jane around town a lot, you know. She looks sad." And she also looks pissed when she spots Clarke, but she won't mention that. "She misses you, and you miss her. If you just explain— and let me help— I know you can fix things." The words hurt to get out, but she manages to get them out almost effortlessly, casually even, and his eyebrows rise.

"Do you…" He pauses, then goes on slowly. "You _want_ me to be with Jane?" There's a clear note of puzzlement to his tone, and Clarke's wishful thinking makes her think there's a trace of hurt too.

She delivers her most honest answer, the one that aches the most. "I _want_ you to be happy."

His face changes, from wary to soft. "Clarke." Her name is a caress on his lips, so familiar and rich that it sends an involuntary shiver down her spine. He sighs and runs a large hand through his unruly black hair. She follows the motion with her eyes and she thinks she isn't doing a good job of disguising the hungry look on her face. God, she wants him so badly. She's so preoccupied thinking about him using those hands to spread her thighs apart that she almost misses his meaning when he says, "Do you remember what you said about Mstislav?"

"I— what?" Clarke asks wildly, jerking her gaze away from his hands and focusing back on his earnest expression.

"You said you felt like you were cheating on me with him, even though you were with him first."

She stares at him for a beat and then— oh.

So that's what this is really about. Now she understands— it all becomes clear. That guilt he's feeling— it's not about Jane.

It's about _Clarke_.

She can't help but feel a little flutter in her stomach at that. But she swallows it down. She can't just jump into his arms, as much as she wants. That's not what he needs right now. "You love Jane, though."

"Yes. All my life."

That hurts more than she cares to admit. "But you love me too."

His voice takes on a deeper, almost desperate quality. "You _know_ I do."

He's looking at her beseechingly now, like he's looking for the answer to a question she didn't ask. He's so, so lost. They both are. A feeling of ice-cold helplessness seeps into Clarke's bones. Why does this keep happening to them?

The door opens, and Clarke takes a step back. So does he. It's only then that she notices how close they've gravitated to each other during their conversation.

It's Jane, she notices with a start. And then— several men. It takes a moment to register, but she recognizes them immediately. They're on the task force of people who have been arresting witches—

"It's her," Jane cries, pointing at Clarke, and Clarke's heart stops dead. "She's a witch, I swear it."

Clarke feels her mouth drop open. She's too in shock to respond, or move, or do anything. It's Bellamy that is the first to react as the men draw closer.

He steps in front of Clarke, arm outstretched as if that alone could shield her. "What is this?" he barks. "Claude's not a witch."

"Move out of the way," one of the men tells him sternly. "There were already two who came forward about this girl's satanic activities. Her neighbour and Johannes Frund, and Jane here was the third, confirming it." Satanic activities? Clarke almost laughs. Johannes Frund has wanted her job as court clerk for years. This shouldn't surprise her, but she's still rooted to the spot.

Bellamy's eyes fall on his ex-fiancee. "Jane, what the hell are you doing?"

The woman holds her ground, lip trembling. "I'm doing the right thing."

"She isn't a witch!"

Jane's eyes fill with tears. "She did something to you. I know it."

"No, she didn't," Bellamy insists, now shoving Clarke totally behind him as the men close in. Clarke fights to get around him—she doesn't want him getting hurt in this process. He doesn't let her. "It was all me. Every mistake— that was mine. Not hers."

But Jane is adamant. "I know you," she tells him, eyes flickering to Clarke and back. "And the Beau I know wouldn't have done what you did. Not in a million years."

One of the men grabs Clarke's wrist, jerking her forward. Bellamy tries to stop them, but he's pushed back.

"Leave it, Bellamy," Clarke finally manages to say, even as she struggles to wrench her wrists out of the man's hands. "There's nothing you can do."

But he pushes forward anyway, thrown back once again. His eyes dart around, at the many surrounding him, and Clarke watches defeat settle into his eyes as he realizes he will be overpowered. "No, don't," he begs. "Please don't punish her. Punish me. _Jane_."

Jane closes her eyes briefly at his pleading but says nothing.

"She's the witch," one of the men say, "Not you. She's bewitched you. Get some sense into your head and stop making a scene."

Clarke feels like she's seeing this all from very far away. She turns to her captors. "What evidence do they have? I've done nothing wrong," she says in the most haughty voice she can imagine.

"Reports put you speaking to Mary Johnson's mother, a known witch," is the prompt reply. "Leaving the house at odd hours. Exchanging potions. Practicing witchcraft."

Clarke blinks several times. She hadn't thought anyone had seen her. It had been dark out, dammit. Her eyes seek out Bellamy's. He's being restrained now, but she shakes her head minutely at him. Let them think she was bewitching him. At least he won't be targeted if that's the case.

"Alright," she says, lifting her head. "I'm a witch. I confess it." She's not interested in a kangaroo court trial or torture. Her words elicit gasps from the people who've gathered to see the commotion. "I've been— bewitching him." Whatever that means.

"Stop lying," Bellamy bites out at her. There's a wild look in his eyes. "She's not bewitching anyone! Jane," he pleads. His fiance turns away, as if unable to bear the weight of his gaze.

"Execution at dawn," one of them says, finally. Bellamy closes his eyes as if he's in pain.

"I knew it," Jane says, hands on her hips. "I knew you were a witch." But there's no triumph in her eyes; there's a tiny bit of guilt instead. Jane didn't want to turn Clarke in, but she genuinely thought Clarke was bewitching Bellamy. She was trying to protect him. And Clarke can't really fault her for that.

And she can't fault her for thinking that Bellamy would never kiss another woman otherwise. Because he wouldn't. Clarke knows that for a fact. She knows because even before she kissed him in this life, had their memories returned, he looked at her with interest, yes; but a _detached_ interest— because more than anything, Bellamy is loyal. It's one of the things Clarke loves most about him.

Despite her earlier fears of this very thing happening, she strangely feels nothing but calm as she's dragged away.

—

Bellamy tries to fight his way to the execution, but in the end, it's hopeless. In the end, Jane asks several burly men from the task force to keep him away from it. That eventually means knocking him unconscious.

When he wakes up, he's alone on his own bed. He scrambles up and heads to the square, where the executions are held.

He's too late.

It's abandoned now, but the smell of burning is still in the air. His eyes fall on the cross still lying there, charred to a near crisp. If there were remains of her, they've been taken away, but it's like he can smell that, too. Like he can smell the scent of her being carried away by the thick night air.

He walks slowly to where the cross would have stood, where they would have tied her to that wooden stake and set it on fire in the middle of the town. There's blood on the ground.

He falls to his knees and throws up.

—

Somehow, he ends up back at his own house. He's a zombie, sinking into a corner of his room and staring blankly ahead of him, before he hears a rooster crow in the distance and realizes it's a new day. A new morning for everyone except Clarke.

That's when the tears start, and once they start, they don't stop.

And that's how Jane finds him, with his head buried into his knees.

"Oh, Beau," she says softly. "You went to the execution site, didn't you? This is why I tried to keep you away."

He raises his head, glaring through blurry vision. "Get the fuck away from me." He pushes her hand away violently when it reaches for his shoulder. His voice sounds slurred from exhaustion.

"She was a witch, Beau."

"No, she wasn't!" he screams at her, and she blinks at the raw volume of his voice, glances to the window as if maybe the neighbours are listening. He doesn't care. "You got her killed. An _innocent_ woman!"

Jane sinks to her knees in front of him. "Then explain, Beau. Please explain what you mean. I promise I will listen." She sounds sad and desperate too, and he hates that; he wishes it was easier to hate her. But then it occurs to him that maybe if he explained _before_ like Clarke told him, this wouldn't have happened. This is _his_ fault. There's no one to hate except himself.

"Please, Beau," Jane pleads, eyes shiny with tears. "I can't make it right, but I—I don't understand what you mean. Why else would you do that, if she wasn't a witch? I know you. You wouldn't have, otherwise."

Her confusion breaks him. She really thinks he's that good a man.

His chapped lips part and he finds himself talking anyway. He tells her the whole damn story, and she sits there and listens, eyes growing steadily glassier the longer he goes on, until his voice is raspy and he's not even listening to himself anymore, just imagining a pair of blue eyes.

When he's finished, she leans forward and hugs him. He can't find any strength to push her away.

"You—you believe me?" he asks.

"Oh, Beau." She buries her face in his shoulder, and now he can tell she's crying, too. "I'm going to help you."

"What?"

She lifts her head to press her forehead against his. "She really put a strong spell on you to make you believe this."

He stares at her until it sets in. Jane still doesn't believe him.

"Beau," Jane says sternly at his silence. "Claude was a witch. She made you believe that you were lovers. That's what witches do. They mess with your head."

 _Maybe she's right_ , a small voice inside him whispers. He shakes his head adamantly. "You're wrong."

Jane grasps his chin firmly and forces him to look at her. "You're the logical one. What's more plausible, that you've been reincarnated for hundreds of years, or there's been a simple spell put on you just _once_?"

Neither, he wants to say. Neither is plausible, or logical. But she's right about one thing—the simplest explanation is that which he's denying.

He finds himself nodding slowly. "Simple explanation," he mutters wildly. She nods back soothingly.

"That's right. So just—shake it off. Don't let that witch mess with us anymore."

He nods again, rapidly, mechanically. Somewhere in the back of his head there's another voice that whispers he's accepting this explanation to avoid dealing with what he's just experienced. He's running away from the pain. Because he's a coward.

Outwardly, he replies, "I won't."

—

Life goes on, with the constant mantra _Clarke isn't real. Clarke isn't real_ , running through his head.

He goes through the motions in a daze, watching other witch trials happen. _It was a witch._

Reshelving books. _She put a spell on me_.

Kissing Jane at their wedding. _It was all a trick_.

He's almost at a place where he believes it, too. But then something curious happens.

One day he's trying to pick the tape label off a shelf with his fingernail, but it's too strongly bonded to the wood, and his fingernail is too short and blunt. He stops bothering with it, reasoning that he'll pick it off when his fingernail is long enough to peel it off.

A few weeks later, he goes to pick the label off again, but he still can't. Frowning, he looks down at his thumbnail and stares. It's the exact same shape and length it was three weeks ago. Like it didn't even grow at all. But that can't be right.

He starts noticing other things. His hair, which usually starts sweeping into his line of vision after a few weeks, stays out of his way. It's not growing either.

What Clarke said to him comes rushing back: _The witch said something was different about us. That her magic interfered with the djinn's_.

As an experiment, when Jane isn't home, he takes a knife from the drawer and draws it over his palm, slicing a shallow wound into his hand. He watches the blood drip into the basin and thus learns he is not invulnerable. The cut scabs over like normal. Maybe this is nothing, he reasons. Maybe his hair and nails aren't growing because of stress.

 _And maybe you're in denial_ , a voice at the back of his head whispers. He banishes it. It sounds suspiciously like Clar— like Claude.

—

Years pass. Over time it becomes increasingly apparent what's happened to him. He watches his increasingly older wife come home with new laugh lines, her face thinned. All the while, he remains the same. His hair doesn't grow, his skin feels the same, but he still carries a small scar on his palm from his experiment. He's not invulnerable, but he's not aging either.

It's the day he accepts this that Jane comes home and tells him, "You have to leave."

He looks at her, at her tired face. There's silence for a long beat, punctuated by the distant sound of the neighbour's baby crying next door. He and Jane haven't been able to have a child, and now he's wondering if this is why. If this part of him has halted in its tracks, too.

"Why?" he finally asks.

She swallows. "People are talking about you. How you look like you haven't aged a day."

He knows that. They comment on it all the time. At first it was admiration, but recently it has become laced with suspicion. The witch trials have only grown more frenzied in Valais, and he suspects he's next. "Maybe I haven't," he replies.

"You need to leave town," Jane says, thrusting out a satchel. He stares at it. "Two people have already pointed you out as a witch."

He finds his voice. "I'm not a witch." He looks up. "And Claude wasn't either."

He thinks about her all the time, but he hasn't said her name in years. Jane still winces. "It doesn't matter," she replies, apparently unconvinced. She probably thinks Clarke did this to him, too. "Beau, I love you. You have to leave, tonight. I don't want you to die."

What about what _I_ want? He silently wonders. But his wife is pleading with him, begging him, and her voice cracks, so he takes the satchel and stands up.

"Okay," he says softly. "I'll do it. Just don't cry." He has always hated seeing her tear up. Their relationship was never the same after Clarke, but he eventually came to accept that she did what she thought was right, and incredibly there's still a very real part of him that loves her. There are also very real parts that hate her, and others even that drown out the rest with guilt.

"Get away from here," Jane says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Don't come back."

He hitches the pack over his shoulder. "Alright."

Her tearful words are barely distinguishable. "I love you, you know that, don't you?"

"I know."

"Find a way to lift whatever curse she put on you."

He doesn't dignify that with a response, and pushes the door open to walk into the night without looking back.

 _._

 _Do not stand at my grave and cry; I am not there. I did not die._ —Mary Elizabeth Frye

.

— 1565: CEBU ISLAND (THE PHILIPPINES) —

.

There's a little stone building nestled into a corner of the busiest street this side of Cebu. It's small, but everyone knows it despite barely paying attention to it in their day-to-day activities around the neighbourhood. The paint on the wall is faded, but the word "ORPHANAGE" can still be read quite clearly if one stops to look. Another small wooden sign is propped up in the window, simply saying "TAILOR. ASK INSIDE FOR RATES."

In the open windows, clothes of all sizes hang over a string and wave lazily in the wind to dry. If someone paused to look into the window of the cramped building, they'd see a handsome man, looking to be in his late twenties, hard at work with his forearms deep inside a wooden basin of water, hair plastered over his forehead from the sweltering weather despite the shade inside, and the trace of a smile on his lips; if they strained to listen, they'd find out why— the laughter of children inside.

The man, who now looks away from his work because there's something tugging at his pant leg, is named Bellamy. And although he looks like he's just twenty-something, he's actually much, much older. But no one else knows that.

Presently, Bellamy picks up the little boy who's been vying for his attention, hoisting him in his arms, and tweaks his nose. "And what do you want?" he asks, in a mock-stern manner. "I'm not giving you another piggy back ride. You've filled your quota for the day."

The little boy shakes his head and points in the direction of the living room. "Arwin brought someone home."

Bellamy blinks in surprise. Arwin's seven years old, one of his oldest charges, but still. "He wasn't even supposed to be out." He frowns.

He gets a shrug in reply, but Bellamy lets himself be tugged out of the kitchen to the commons. Gathered there are the rest of his nine kids. They're from all walks of life, ranging from four to twelve, and they wound up at his orphanage in various states, but they all have one thing in common: they've been abandoned in one way or the other.

(He knows the feeling.)

He spots Arwin in the middle of the group of kids, and Arwin spots him.

"Don't be mad, Bellamy," begs the little boy immediately, seeing the stern glint in Bellamy's eyes.

"Arwin, what did I tell you about going out without telling me?"

"I know, I know," Arwin says impatiently, and flings his hand out. "But look, I brought a friend!" Bellamy stares at him hard for another moment before sighing, throwing down his towel and looking down.

He gives an immediate start. It's a little girl— she can't be more than six years old. But all the other kids in the room are now watching the girl with rapt attention. She's an exotic looking thing to them— pale skin, yellow hair.

Bellamy's heart seizes and he can't seem to move his arms or legs. He watches as if through fogged glass as his young charges crowd around the white girl, touching her hair, her pale porcelain skin. She, in turn, stares in wonder at them all, the sea of brown skin and black hair around her.

She reminds Bellamy of someone.

But it can't be. He gave up on finding her a long time ago. That's why he'd settled here in the first place, somewhere he could fit in with the natives, and try to bury all his memories of Clarke along with his heart.

He realizes dimly that Arwin is saying his name, and he tunes back in. "Can we keep her?" Arwin whines. "She was lost. She has no family."

Bellamy manages to unstick the back of his throat. There's no way it's her. Not after all this time. "She's got family, all right. Look at her, Arwin. She's with the Spaniards. Take her back where you found her." Or the colonizers would come looking for her, and they probably would not be happy to find one of their own kidnapped by him.

"She was crying and stuff," Arwin says defensively. "I don't think she knows where to go. And I don't understand what she's saying anyway."

Bellamy sighs and that's when the little blonde girl looks up.

His eyes connect with hers, and he feels like someone's just stabbed him in the gut.

Don't ask him how he knows— but he does. Her blue eyes remind him too much of Clarke. He feels his breath catch in his throat as he studies her. Nothing else is really recognizable about her features— in none of his past lives did he know Clarke as a child. He has no idea what she might've looked like. But then again— she's got the precise shape and colour of Clarke's eyes. He knows that golden-spun hair anywhere. And there's an adorable point to her nose, a faint mole above her lip, a slight cleft in her chin. It all seems like too much coincidence.

It's Clarke, it's got to be Clarke. She reincarnated after all.

He's so caught up in his fascination with her, his sudden feelings of joy that threaten to overwhelm him in the middle of the living room with all his kids looking up to him, that it takes him a moment to realize her blue eyes are glistening with tears. When he does, he's immediately crouching to her level. The other kids get out of his way, stepping back, so that there's a clear path between Bellamy and— and Clarke?

"Hello," he greets her softly in Spanish. He sees her eyes widen at her own familiar language. He knows the language— one of many he's picked up over his life.

"I'm scared," she says tearfully. "I want my mommy."

She sounds so young. Maybe it's just wishful thinking on his part that he can almost hear Clarke's huskier voice under the youth, waiting to spring forth with age. "And where's mommy?" he asks her gently. "If we take you back to where Arwin found you, is she there?"

"No," the little girl says tearfully, looking down at her hands. "I don't know where I am. I just fell asleep and— and I was here." She looks so lost.

"And how about daddy?"

"I don't know," she repeats. A tear escapes her eye, falling down the pale skin of her cheek. Behind her, one of his young charges is still running a few golden strands through her fingers in amazement. Bellamy doesn't exactly blame them. White people are still new to them.

Bellamy sighs. "We'll find your people. In the meantime," he ignores the triumphant glimpse in Arwin's eye, "you can stay with us."

—

Maybe it's a lack of effort on his part, but they don't find her people. So instead, she becomes one of his.

As the following six years pass, Bellamy becomes one hundred percent certain that he's raising a new incarnation of Clarke. It becomes apparent as her face starts to fill out. She's got her own name, but Bellamy slips up so many times, calling her "Clarke", that the other kids start to follow his lead, presuming it's just another endearing pet name he's got for her. And she seems to like the name, too, even insisting he use it instead of her own.

But of course, she does not remember him.

He supposes he could find out pretty easily, just by kissing her lips. But that's a pretty goddamn depraved thing for a hundred and sixty five year old man to do. He's not sure he can ever do that now— he doesn't even know how a young Clarke would handle all those very adult memories of pain and suffering she's endured over many lifetimes. He would be taking away her innocence. But that doesn't stop him from thinking about it, a lot. He just misses her so damn much.

In any case, he spends a lot of time cursing magicians in the back of his head. Fucking djinn, that made them reincarnate seemingly endlessly. Fucking witch, that interfered and made them ageless but not invulnerable. Fucking Clarke, getting killed and going back to the same cycle they've been dancing in for the past few centuries, leaving him alone in immortality.

Now that he knows this is what will happen if someone kills him, he supposes he could just kill himself, following her right back into reincarnation. But he can't do that. Not now. Not now when Clarke sits across from him at the dinner table every night, giggling innocently, chattering away in a mix of Tagalog and Spanish with the rest of them and carefree as a child should be. He would never give up a minute of her company. But sometimes he's seized with the urge. Just—kiss her, awaken her. She'll remember him, and he'll have his best friend back.

But then she'll look up, grin saucily at him with an eyebrow arched up, and he'll realize he _has_ his best friend back already, even if she doesn't remember that she is. And that'll have to be good enough.

—

The story comes out of Clarke gradually, as the years go on—she stowed away on a ship that set sail from Spain. She survived, somehow, as Clarke always does, and found herself here. She says she thinks her father might have been on that ship, but she doesn't know for sure, and as the years pass she finds herself less and less certain of her own story. She was only five years old, after all. She might never be reunited with her real family. Bellamy wishes he was more cut up about it, but he's not.

She's truly one of _his_ family, he muses late one night while she and Arwin are having a heated argument over something or the other in the kitchen. Bellamy just happens to be present when it gets nasty, since he's cooking dinner.

"Quit it," he warns twelve-year old Clarke after she makes fun of Arwin's hair, but he's trying to keep his lips from twitching upward.

"Clarke has a crush on you," Arwin announces as revenge. Bellamy's smile disappears immediately but he continues stirring the pot.

Clarke's reaction is about what he expected. "I do _not_!" She gasps, looking rapidly at Bellamy.

Arwin isn't done. "She likes your _pretty hair_ , Bellamy. And she's always drawing your arms in her sketchbook—aah!" Bellamy looks up sharply; Clarke, blushing furiously, has pushed Arwin hard, and he stumbles backwards. He puts down the wooden spoon. Time to step in.

"Enough, you two," he says, smoothly stepping between them. "Arwin, stop teasing her or you're cleaning the outhouse for the next week. Clarke…" He can actually feel himself soften as he falls inside her blue eyes. "Don't hit him."

"Or what?" Arwin demands. "Why doesn't _she_ have to clean the outhouse? I mean, everyone knows she's your favourite, but—"

"Enough," Bellamy repeats. "You're both on outhouse duty." They both erupt into protests, and he holds up a hand. "Save it. If you work together, it'll be done faster."

Arwin grumbles and, after casting a last dirty look at Clarke, he slinks away. Clarke hovers. Bellamy doesn't catch her eye, instead choosing to pick up his wooden spoon and resume stirring the pot of chilli.

"I'm sorry," Clarke says in a small voice. He can see in his peripheral vision that her hands are clasped in front of her. "I shouldn't have pushed him. He got to me."

"It's all right." He knows he still sounds disgruntled. Truth be told, having twelve-year-old Clarke's crush on him shoved in front of his face always gets him in a bit of a mood. It brings forth a shit ton of cognitive dissonance he's not prepared to deal with. Ever.

"Please don't kick me out," she whispers. He pauses, confused, and then looks at her again.

There's fear in her eyes. She really thinks he might just leave her out on the street; she still feels like she's living off a favour that he might retract at any time. Somehow, she doesn't realize that she became part of his family the moment she stepped in here.

When he doesn't answer right away, she surges forward to hug him, awkwardly around the side since he's turned towards the stove. "Please. I'll be good."

He's frozen for a moment, then sets down his spoon again. "Clarke." He turns and disentangles her arms from him with difficulty, holds her away from him by the hands so that she has to step back and look him in the eye. He bends slightly; he needs her to see in his gaze that he's telling the truth. "You never have to worry about being kicked out. You've _always_ got a home here with me, do you understand that?"

Her lower lip wobbles and her eyes fill with tears. She nods, and satisfied, he straightens up, letting go of her hands. But then she reaches forward and grabs his hand again. He looks down. She's got an earnest look on her face.

"Maybe it doesn't mean anything to you, but you've always got home with me too," she replies.

His breath catches at her solemn gaze. She is wise beyond her years. Picking up the other meaning in his words, reflecting it back at him. She sees it, even at just twelve years old. She somehow sees how lonely he is.

He loves her in a different way in this lifetime, Bellamy muses. But in some ways, it's the same. Because Bellamy's love for Clarke has always, at its core, been about understanding. And that has never changed. The only thing that changed is the way it manifests in him.

He doesn't say any of that, of course. He doesn't tell her how his love for her only seems to expand with time, filling up more and more space in his heart. So he just squeezes her hand and lets go. "Thanks, Clarke." He means it. "Now go clean the outhouse." She pouts and he can't help but laugh. "You didn't think sweet-talking would get you out of it, did you?"

She smiles back and bats her eyelashes. "I hoped it would."

He shakes his head fondly. "Go help Arwin, Clarke."

She stops at the door. "Bellamy?"

"Yeah."

"I love you," she says with a sigh, in the careless and casual way children do, and Bellamy freezes up again.

But she's waiting for his response, unaware of his inner turmoil. So he swallows down the lump in his throat and casually returns, "Love you too."

Clarke smiles bright, and flounces away, bright and innocent and unstained as she should be. He watches her go, fingers clenched around the wooden spoon. The dark, selfish part of him debates awakening her again. But he pushes it away for the umpteenth time.

It's not worth it. It's not worth losing that carefree smile.

—

IAnd it's not always easy raising her.

She's just as stubborn a child as he knows her to be as an adult.

Like the night some weeks later she just… disappears, and none of his kids seem to know where she is. He's losing his mind with worry and is putting on his shoes to go looking for her when she walks in, calm as you please.

He's on his feet within the instant. There's a small smile on her face, but it disappears at the look in his eyes.

"Where have you been?" he thunders.

"Relax, Bellamy," she says. "I was with Neil." Neil is a boy from the street over, one Bellamy really, really doesn't like, mostly because he looks at Clarke with a gleam in his eye.

"You can't just disappear without telling me!" he shouts at her. "Do you even know how worried I was?" She's silent in the face of his anger, and he realizes he's raised his voice a little more than he usually does. He can't help it, though. It's Clarke. He'll be damned if she dies on his watch _again_. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers in an attempt to calm down. "It's dangerous at this time of night. Where did you two go?"

"He was showing me around," Clarke says in a small voice.

"I'm not asking again. _Where_?"

She looks down at her shoes. "Uptown."

His heart stops. "Uptown?" That's where the Spaniards are. That's where he's explicitly forbidden his kids to go. Bellamy may have to deal with the colonizers on a daily basis, but that doesn't mean he'll expose any of his kids to them. It's safer for them all to stay out of sight in the slums.

Especially her. She stands out with her paleness, and the last thing he wants is for her to get noticed by the Spaniard men.

"Bellamy," Clarke pleads, clasping her hands together in front of her. "You never let us go there. I just wanted to see it. I want to _see_ things. And if I never get to see the world, I'd like to at least see a few blocks over."

She sounds near tears and he feels guilty. It's not the first time. He can't really provide much for his kids, except for a marginal amount of safety with him, food, and a roof over their heads. He can't provide them opportunities to grow or to escape poverty, and that breaks his heart.

He runs a hand over his face. "You're grounded."

She's outraged. "But—"

"You're _grounded_ ," he repeats, jabbing a finger to the hallway where the kids' rooms are, where he knows probably all the kids are huddled around the corner listening to this conversation. "You deliberately disobeyed me. Extra chores tomorrow."

"You suck," she spits at him, stomping away the way kids do.

"Hey," he shouts after her, "my rules aren't to ruin you guys' fun, it's to keep you safe." Her door slams in response.

He goes back to the kitchen and back to his needlework, starting to worry. If she was seen outside of the slums, word might get to the Spaniards. And then there'll be trouble.

—

Clarke gives him the cold shoulder for a while. He'd be lying if he said it didn't hurt a bit. Even if he's felt it before, back when they were married and disagreed on things. But those arguments always ended with whispered streams of apologies and gentle touches and long passionate nights.

This isn't the same Clarke, of course. This is one of the kids he's raising, and he knows far too well that kids can hold grudges. Roman held a grudge against Bellamy for a very long time following Clarke's death, not that he ever told _her_ that. If Clarke's anything like her son, he's guessing she can probably keep this up for years if she wants to.

The following week, it's Arwin's birthday. So with the small amount of money in his pocket, Bellamy buys some sweets from the market on his way home to share with them, as he always does on the kids' birthdays. And a set of shiny green marbles, because Arwin collects those.

He's just imagining the boy's glee upon receiving the gift when he gets jumped.

It's not uncommon for there to be robbers on this side of the slums, especially when it gets dark, but tonight he's unprepared. At the end of it, he's left spitting blood into the dirt, his money bag and gifts stolen for his trouble.

Testing his jaw gingerly, he picks himself up and continues on home like nothing happened. He'll just take on more work than usual and get more treats for them next week.

Letting himself into the orphanage, he decides he'll just tell them he forgot. They'll be disappointed, but it's better than telling them that he got robbed. That he's not as invulnerable as they like to think.

As always, a bunch of kids come streaming out of the commons to greet him, jumping up and down. They pause in confusion when they see he's empty-handed.

"Did you bring us anything?" one asks eagerly. "Sweets?"

"It's my birthday!" Arwin yells in jubilation, throwing his hands up.

Mask in place, Bellamy opens his mouth to calmly tell them his prepared lie, but then another voice cuts through from the back of the room.

"What happened to your eye?"

He looks up. It's Clarke, standing in the doorway. Confused, he raises a hand to his cheek and realizes his skin is sensitive to the touch and swollen. A quick glance at the chipped mirror on the wall confirms his fears. The robbers have left a visible mark on him, one that will only become more noticeable come morning.

He grits his teeth and changes his story. "It's nothing. I was being clumsy," he tells them. "I fell and everything I was gonna bring went into the mud. I'm sorry. I'll bring you something next week, Arwin," he tells the boy, desperately hoping he won't be too mad.

To his surprise, Arwin just shrugs. His eyes are wide with concern at Bellamy's bruise. "It's okay," he says. A pause. "You should really watch where you're going though."

For some reason, a laugh bubbles up in his chest, out of relief or because the comment is unexpected, he doesn't know. Fondly, he ruffles the young boy's hair. "I'll do that next time."

The kids slowly disperse after learning that there won't be any treats tonight after all. Bellamy retreats to the kitchen, which is essentially his workroom, and sits on the large upside down bucket that functions as his stool, picking up the cloth he's been sewing into a shirt for one of his clients.

He's not a minute into his work when he senses he's being watched. He looks up, and Clarke is standing there, hands behind her back. Her expression is indecipherable.

He clears his throat, unsure of where they stand. "You need something?"

Her answer isn't what he expects. "Do you think we're stupid?"

He blinks. She goes on, sounding furious.

"You really expect me to believe you fell and got a bruise like that?"

Oh. He looks back down at the thread in his hand. "Believe me or don't believe me, but that's what happened." His answer is brusque, and there's silence. He assumes the conversation is over and resumes sewing.

He doesn't realize she's standing right in front of where he sits until her small hand is on his chin, tilting his face up towards her.

She's examining him with a clinical eye, and then her fingers, far too gentle and soft, touch the puffy skin around his eye. "It looks like you got punched in the face, Bellamy."

With her hand on his skin, her voice filled with concern, he can't bring himself to respond. He's not even sure what he'd say.

"You don't have to lie to us to protect us, you know," she tells him, sounding softer than she has in a while. Her fingers continue to stroke his swollen skin. "We're family, aren't we? We share stuff with each other. We comfort each other. That goes for you, too."

He squeezes his eyes shut tightly. Once again, she knows exactly what to say to rip away the barbed wire caging his lonely heart. "I don't want you guys to worry about me," he mutters. Kids should be innocent, and happy, and only have to worry about frivolous things like chores or getting grounded. He can give them that, at least.

He opens his eyes again just in time to see a small sad smile crosses her lips. "We're all you have. If we don't worry about you, who will?"

Unable to bear her compassionate gaze any longer, he catches her wrist and removes her hand from his face. " _I_ will. That's my job." He avoids her gaze, bending down to grab his scissors, but he can feel her eyes on him.

"Too bad," she announces, and he looks back up. Her hands are on her hips. "I already worry about you."

Despite himself, he's intrigued. She sounds like she's thought about this. "You do?"

"Well, yeah," Clarke says. "All you do is sew people's clothes, and buy things from the market for us, and cook food, and, well, you know." She waves a hand around. "House stuff."

A smile tugs at his lips. "What's so bad about that?"

She shrugs. "I don't know. You just don't seem to do much for yourself. I mean, do you have any friends?"

 _Yes, you_ , he thinks.

"Don't you have, I don't know, hobbies?"

"You guys are all I need," he eventually answers, and honestly that's pretty true. Since starting this orphanage, he has felt, for the first time in a long time, like he's doing something meaningful. He's happy with that.

Clarke apparently isn't. "There must be more you want."

If only she knew. But he's done with this conversation. It unnerves him a little bit to have young Clarke so easily peer into his soul. "You're right."

She leans forward in anticipation.

He points to the door. "What I _want_ is for you to go sweep the commons floor. You're still grounded, remember?"

—

The tension between them eases after that. That's immediately clear the next day when, after he unexpectedly gets an advance payment for some of his work and decides to head to the market to grab some sweets right away, Clarke pipes up and asks to go with him.

"How old are you?" Clarke asks suddenly while they stroll around the busy square.

Hardly blinking, he gives the standard answer he gives all his young charges when they have asked this question. "Old. Hey, you want more paints?" A vendor on the other side of the square is selling brightly coloured cans of them, and the kids— especially Clarke— love them.

"Yes," Clarke says eagerly. "But don't try to distract me. You didn't answer my question." When Bellamy doesn't say anything, she presses further. "I asked Arwin yesterday. He said you know everyone's birthdays, but none of them know yours, or even how old you are." She examines him, tilting her head. "You look exactly the same as when I met you."

"That wasn't very long ago," he replies lightly.

"It was six years," she shoots back. "And I have a good memory."

"Maybe not as good as you thought." He pays for the paints and a bag of marbles he also sees on the table.

Meanwhile, Clarke continues to look doubtful. Bellamy sighs. He's been keeping a low profile in this town, having lived here close to fifteen years, and people come and go quickly so he rarely has to answer this question from an adult. And when he does start having to, he'll move.

Clarke pouts. "Why won't you tell me? I won't tell the other kids if you don't want me to."

"Why do you care so much?" he asks with exasperation. "You've just spent so much time around me that you haven't noticed me getting older, that's all. I'm twenty-seven." It's a lie, of course, but she looks satisfied at the answer.

"Was that so hard?" she asks wryly.

Bellamy nearly trips over his own feet because she sounds so much like _his_ Clarke in that moment that he's caught off guard, but he manages to right himself at the last moment. Before he can respond, there's a shout in the square, and he whips his head around to look.

The Spanish Governor has entered the square, followed by some of his men. They wear their impressive, colourful uniforms, crisp and neat as always, their pale skin and hair standing out starkly amongst the natives in the square.

Bellamy feels his throat go dry. The governor has never set foot in the slums before. What's he doing here now, after six years of settlement? Even worse, he realizes with horror that he's scanning the crowd as if looking for something. Instantly, he grabs Clarke's hand and backs up.

"What's wrong?" Clarke asks.

"We need to leave," he says curtly. "Now." Just because he doesn't think Clarke has any relation to these people, doesn't mean that he doesn't know what'll happen if they see him holding the hand of a little white girl. They'll take her. No one will ask questions, because she doesn't fit in around here anyway— not really. And he's afraid of what will happen to her.

Clarke doesn't press further, recognizing his scary tone of voice, the one he uses when the kids are being unreasonable. She lets him tug her away, back to the orphanage, before he finally decides they're safe.

"Who are those men?" Clarke asks when they get there.

"I don't know," he replies, then looks at her. "Do you? Do you recognize them?"

She shakes her head. "No… but they look like me. Maybe they know who I am." She sounds hopeful.

"No," he says, nipping that to the bud immediately. She glares at him, stomping her foot.

"Why not?" Bellamy recognizes the yearning in her voice, the yearning to know where she came from.

But he shakes his head. She doesn't understand— she's too young, too innocent to know what might happen if those men see probably the first white girl they've seen in years. "Not yet," he replies, and she delivers him a very poisonous look. He almost laughs because the glare very much reminds him of their first life, when she used to get pissed at him for making decisions in war without her input. It's been happening a lot lately; she's really growing up.

Clarke doesn't seem to appreciate the humour she sees sparkling in his eyes. "Why not?"

"Because they'll take you," he replies, amusement dying at just the prospect. They'll take Clarke from him.

"Because I belong with them?"

"Because you look like them," he corrects her. "There's a difference."

She crosses her arms. "It sounds to me like you just don't want me to meet people who might know my family."

He can't even deny this because that's partly true. She must see that in his eyes because she huffs in disgust. "I don't understand you."

He watches her walk away. Her dismissal makes something in his heart twinge, but it's okay. As long as she's safe.

—

She's not safe. Word hits the street in the following days that the Governor's men are looking for a little girl with blonde hair.

"It's his daughter," the man who owns the flat next to the orphanage explains to a very shocked Bellamy. "The Governor's second in command has been missing his daughter for years, and found out from letters from his wife that she wasn't in Spain. Apparently she stowed away on his ship and came here. Then she disappeared, and was seen a few streets uptown a while back." He misreads Bellamy's shock. "Guess we know where your mystery white girl came from. You can give her back. With a little extra money on your hands, maybe."

Bellamy recovers. This is all Neil's fault, really, for taking Clarke up there. He squashes the sudden desire to strangle him the next time he sees him and focuses on the immediate problem. "Do they know?" he asks urgently. "Do they know I have her?"

A shrug. "Everyone knows that girl around here. They're bound to find out eventually. You'd best deliver her to them before they come knocking."

Indeed. The sinking feeling in his chest constricts Bellamy's breath as he enters the orphanage, stopping at the door. Clarke is reading a book aloud while sitting on the floor, one of the other girls resting her head on her shoulder to listen. Some of them are running circles around the room, chasing each other, so used to Clarke's soothing voice filling the silence that they barely hear it.

Bellamy suddenly finds himself leaning very heavily against the doorway. Taking Clarke away won't just affect _him_.

Clarke chooses that moment to look up, meeting his eyes. Her gaze turns frosty and she looks back down deliberately. She's still irritated at him for not being allowed to talk to the Spaniards.

"Clarke," he says softly. She looks up again reluctantly, pausing in her story. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

She sighs and gets up, leaving the book on the floor for the other kids to pour over, and follows him to the kitchen. When he turns to look at her, she crosses her arms, expectant.

He doesn't meander around the topic. "I think I found your father." Her mouth opens in shock, but he presses forward. "I'll take you to him, if you want. Do you want that?" He feels a little desperate asking that question.

Her answer makes his heart sink like a stone. "Of course I want to see my father," she says. "How—how do you—?"

"He's been looking for you," he says curtly. "You were seen uptown with Neil. But look, you have to understand. If I take you to him, he'll want you to go with him. You won't be able to stay with us anymore."

She looks disappointed, but brightens again. "I can visit, though."

She looks so hopeful, so naive; he swallows. "I don't think so, Clarke."

"You don't know my father," she says stubbornly, crossing her arms. "I'll get him to listen to me. I can live with him, and I can visit you."

He thinks she might be wrong, though. She's spent the majority of her life living at the orphanage after all. She doesn't really know her father after six years of no contact with him. And Bellamy doesn't trust the Spaniards, not at all.

But it's not right of him, he decides, a lump growing in his throat. It's not right to take her away from her family, her birthright, because he's too selfish to let her out of his sight.

"Alright," he relents.

—

It doesn't take long for Clarke to gather her things. She excitedly tells the other kids the news, that they shouldn't worry and she'll be back within the hour to visit, and it makes his heart ache.

He takes her uptown, to the Governor's main office, clutching her hand all the way. The moment they're spotted, a ripple of murmuring erupts from the Spaniards gathered around. They're ushered inside, and that's when the trouble starts.

She's ripped away from him inside the room by one. Another Spaniard has his sword to Bellamy's neck. He stands completely still, hands raised in a placating gesture. He doesn't take his eyes off Clarke.

"Claire," says one of the men, delighted, reaching for Clarke. She recoils, looking terrified suddenly.

"Let him go!" she cries. "Who are you?"

He frowns. "I'm your father."

Clarke looks at him, _really_ looks at him, and some part of Bellamy hopes she'll announce that nope, he's not, but instead he sees recognition dawning in her eyes.

"It's really you," her father says, sounding tearful. "Oh, Claire. Your mother will be so happy to see you again."

"I don't want to go back to Spain," Clarke protests. She's ignored.

"We were all so worried, you know. To find you alive is a miracle."

Clarke jerks her head at Bellamy, who's pressed against the wall. "It's because of him. He's taken care of me. Please leave him alone." Her voice goes squeaky, but she holds her ground. "He's a good man."

Her father wrinkles his nose. "You don't know what you're saying."

"You don't know what _you're_ saying!" Clarke retorts. "Please let him go."

Her father studies her a moment and nods at the man who's holding Bellamy. The sword falls away from his throat and Bellamy releases a breath. Clarke turns back to her father.

"I mean it. I'm not going back to Spain. I love this place. Please, please let me stay here with you."

He considers her for a long moment, and Bellamy holds his breath, almost daring to believe—

Clarke's father nods at his men. "Take her away. Get her on board the ship." Clarke screams, fighting against them, and Bellamy surges forward automatically at her cries, only to be held back by the sword again. He sags in defeat. This is it. The last he's going to see of her.

"Wait, wait," Clarke sobs. "Let me— let me say goodbye." Her father looks skeptical. Clarke turns on her doe eyes. "Please, Daddy. He _raised_ me."

Her father's eyes soften slightly, and he nods at his men. As soon as she's released, Clarke flings herself at Bellamy. He barely manages to catch her around the waist, pulling her close to him in a hug while terribly conscious of the eyes on them.

Clarke tucks her nose into the crook of his neck. He can feel her hot tears on his skin, and thinks it's a wonder he's not crying himself.

In fact, he sounds astoundingly even when he murmurs, "Don't try to escape." That actually gets her to lift her head off his shoulder, startled, and he meets her gaze steadily.

"How'd you know I—"

"Because I _know_ you, Clarke," he interrupts. If only she knew how true that statement was, beyond the surface level of it. "But this time, don't do it." He jerks his head towards the Spaniards. "You come from money, you know. They can offer you a better life than I ever could here. More opportunities." It's the truth, every ugly word of it. He wishes he could come with her to Spain, but he's got about ten more kids behind him who need him more. He can't abandon them now.

"I don't want more opportunities." Her hands tighten around his shoulders, voice muffled against him. "I want _you_."

Her murmured words have his heart beating erratically, but he responds evenly, "And I want you to live."

Her eyes swell with fresh tears. "Bellamy—"

He gently extricates her arms from around him. It feels like the hardest thing he's ever had to do, and he feels a pang of regret at the flash of hurt he sees on her face. "Go." He nods at the Spaniards, and they come forward to grab Clarke's arm again.

She wrenches her hand out of their grip. "I'll write you," she says, voice breaking. "I'll— I'll— I'll come back. This is all a misunderstanding."

"Forget it," Bellamy tells her. "Listen to your father."

She replies fiercely, with tears spilling from her eyes, "I will _never_ forget about you."

Despite her fervency, he somehow knows from the uneasy shifting of her father that he will never receive a letter. And he has a feeling that in several years, when all his orphans are off on their own and independent so that he finally gets a chance to follow her, he won't find her. Not in Spain, not anywhere.

But Clarke's looking at him desperately, searching for reassurance. He can't walk away with giving her that, so he just smiles and tells her the painful truth. "Me neither."

 _._

 _May you live forever._ —Clarke Griffin

.

— 1700: THE ISLAND OF MADAGASCAR —

.

There's a well-known pirate tavern in Madagascar. tonight, there's quite the stir there.

Most nights, it's home to tired sailors, or drunken stragglers from the port. But tonight, the small establishment is packed to the brim with a loud and boisterous crowd gathered, the liquor flowing freely. This kind of stir at the tavern only ever means one thing: the owner of the tavern is in town tonight.

He is a well-known pirate who, along with Thomas Tew, practically established the Pirate Round, an elaborate circuit that has now become popular among pirates looking to pillage ships passing to or from India on the Red Sea. Presumably occupied with his own riches, he is hardly ever present at the tavern he helped establish.

But tonight he is, throwing back shots and surveying the crowd in front of him.

He's got tan skin, freckles you can't see in the dim lighting, inky dark hair curling against his forehead, and even darker, long-lashed eyes. But what makes him attractive is the sense of mystery around him— the twinkle in his gaze, the curl to his mouth, the confidence with which he walks. Even the gleaming hook where his left hand used to be contributes to his allure. Unsurprisingly, he's the object of many wanton stares in the room, and he returns the attention gladly tonight, dancing with many of the admirers to the music his live performers provide.

One dancer in particular seems to capture his attention.

He stops on his way to the bar when he sees her. She wears a loose, silky white dress, no doubt made from material stolen from Moorish ships. She's swaying her hips in the middle of the dance floor, arms raised above her head, and she's got a few admirers of her own. She cuts an impressive figure in more ways than one, and the tavern owner follows her movements with a hungry gaze. Eventually he sets his drink down on the bar and approaches her.

Closer up, it's easier to see her hair is long and wavy and red and he pauses for a fraction of a second before continuing on, boldly entering her personal space from behind. The woman, still shrouded in the darkness of the tavern, senses him and, still dancing, steps right into his arms. Taking the invitation, he places his right hand on her hip. She arches into his touch, tipping her head back against his shoulder.

They dance like that for a few minutes, until the woman reaches behind her, urging his lips down to her neck. He complies, mouthing at her skin, his hand raking a fiery path down her side in a way that would be absolutely appalling if they were in proper public.

She sighs, the sound low and husky in her throat, and he pulls her flush against him, wrapping his other arm around her waist completely to draw her in close. He's entranced by her, the way she moves, the way she sounds, and the way her lazily closed eyes finally open, revealing irises bluer than the sea.

He's got no time to react because she suddenly lifts an arm and the pirate feels the cold metal of a gun being pressed to his temple. He stops in his movements. So has she. Dimly, they're both aware that the music has stopped, the performers in confusion. The pirate looks up, unheeding of the gun pressed to his head, and sees all his workers held up in similar positions by women. All women with streaming red hair. It clicks in his head at the same time that the woman holding him captive in her lethal embrace smiles triumphantly at having held him and his crew up at his own bar.

"Hello, Bellamy." She slowly extricates herself from him and gestures for him to get on his knees. He complies, putting his hands behind his head and watching her attentively.

His mouth breaks into something of a wry grin. "The Griffin," he says her name, or at least the title of the infamous female pirate in front of him. His voice is deliciously low, sending sinful shockwaves down her spine, but it still carries over the now quiet room as everyone watches. "In mythology, it's the name of the king of all beasts. You still going by that name?"

Griffin bristles, knowing he's taunting her. He's the one who, many years ago, gave her the idea for the name himself. " _Queen_ of all beasts," she corrects, nudging at his head with the gun. He ducks it obediently. "Including yourself. So kneel." She tsks, trying not to let on how his mischievous eyes put her off. She's got him in a bad position, so why does he look like he's got all the cards in his hands?

"More like princess," he muses.

She pushes the gun harder against his head to indicate she doesn't like that, then reaches behind her own head and pulls her wig off, letting her tousled hair, yellow as a lion's mane, fall over her shoulders wildly. "I put on a red wig, and you don't even recognize me. You're so shallow."

He delivers another rakish grin. "Who says I didn't recognize you?"

She stares at him, willing herself not to blush at the memory of the way they had just danced pressed up against each other. And at the knowledge that, beyond reason, she had _liked_ it. She dismisses the troubling thought as soon as it comes. There are more pressing matters at hand. "You're a pig, but that's not news." She sniffs. "I think you know why I'm here."

He looks around. "I have a few ideas. Especially since you've brought your crew." Bellamy looks back up at her, and disbelievingly she recognizes pride in his dark eyes. "I hear you call yourselves the Sirens now. Luring men to their deaths, and taking all their treasures."

His eyes on her are, as always, unnerving; somehow she gets the sense that he's staring right into her soul. Her breath catches, and she's almost ensnared in his heady gaze, at least until his eyes flicker down blatantly to her lips, and she catches the longing in his expression. That snaps her out of it real quick.

She still remembers when she first met him, several years ago when she was barely a woman, and he caught her eye— it had been in Madagascar, when she was working in one of the shops on the shore and he was a famous pirate stopping for supplies. He'd stopped when he saw her, and he'd strode straight towards her like he was on a mission, and tried to kiss her, without greeting her, without speaking, touching her like she was his.

That really hadn't been a good start to their relationship. She'd managed to jerk out of the way just in time. Then she'd slapped him across the face for his trouble while he was stammering and stomped away. He found her at her work later, looking much more chagrined, apologizing and asking her if he could make it up to her with a drink. She'd accepted against her better judgment, and every time she'd found herself becoming entranced with him, he'd look back down at her lips with that _look_ on his face and she'd remember what a pig he clearly was.

She realizes belatedly he's studying her, too, now, eyes dragging up and down her body. "You've grown," Bellamy remarks. She puts her hands on her hips, unyielding to his lecherous gaze.

"You haven't grown at all," she retorts, and he laughs lowly.

"You have no idea," he replies finally. His voice is still light, but there's an edge to it. It's one of those complexities about Bellamy she has never quite been able to unravel, from when they met to when they became rivals on the Pirate Round. "So, princess—"

Her lips tighten at the nickname. "Griffin."

"Princess Griffin," he amends with a twinkle in his eye. "How can I help you?"

"You're already helping me," she replies, gesturing to all Bellamy's crew members who, like their captain, are stock still under the weapons held against them. "By staying put. As we speak, my people are raiding your backrooms." His smile fades slightly, urging her on. "Yes, we know all about the treasure you keep around your tavern. Eyes up _here_." She shoots at the ground near his knee, eliciting gasps from the watchers. Bellamy doesn't flinch, but he does drag his gaze from her lips back to her eyes.

"Sorry." He doesn't sound like it.

She's had enough, and casts a glance behind her. Now that the tavern is at her mercy, her red-haired Sirens have begun dragging out his chests of silk and gold from the backrooms. At her glance, one of them looks up.

"Almost done, ma'am," she's told. Griffin nods curtly and turns back to Bellamy. Looks like she has to entertain him a bit longer if she wants to rob him completely blind.

"How'd you lose your hand, anyway?" she asks him, eyeing his left arm, where his hand used to be. "I'm pretty sure you had both when I first met you." He doesn't answer right away. She can't help but taunt him a bit. "Did a woman finally do something about you putting a hand on her ass unsolicited?"

That gets a response. He gives her a hard glare. "I'm not like that."

She scoffs, not even dignifying that comment with a response. "What then? In a fight?"

His eyes are now on her Sirens, still traipsing out of his bar holding heaps of the treasures that he's accumulated over the years. She kind of relishes the exasperation in his eyes. "No," he merely replies. And then, abruptly: "Why are you stealing my treasure, Griffin?"

She's almost startled by the question. It's out of left field. The obvious answer is on her lips: _Because we're pirates, that's why_. And there's no honour among thieves. Bellamy should know better than to keep this big a stash in his tavern with so little security, anyway. It'll be a lesson for him. But instead she finds the truth falling from her lips. "Because I need it."

She chastises herself immediately for saying that, but he looks up sharply, heedless to the gun still pressed to his head. "Why? What happened?" She doesn't say anything, but he somehow deduces it anyway. "Someone's stolen from you."

Her hand tightens around her gun.

"You're desperate," he continues, eyes narrowing. "You're indebted to someone. They want their share, and you're trying to get it to them. Through any means possible."

"Shut up," she hisses, hearing the restless stirring of her Sirens around her. Her finger tightens at the trigger. He doesn't seem to fear the gun pressed to his head. If anything, he almost leans into it.

As she's trying to puzzle out what that means, he says suddenly, "Let me help."

"Help?" she repeats, dumbly. He nods. She would say he looks concerned for her, but she knows better than that. She shakes herself and glares. "I didn't agree to a parlay."

He ignores that. "I've got intel that there's a Moor ship sailing through the Round carrying silk and spices. Not to mention gold and silver and jewels. Headed for Europe. At least, until we stop them."

Griffin is barely keeping up and finds herself irritated at his wording, as if she's already agreed to this plan. "You're just saying this so I won't rob you."

"What I have stashed in the tavern isn't enough to pay back all your debt," he replies, somehow deducing this correctly, and she finds herself sweating. How does he do it? How does he look into the poker face she's perfected and somehow see what she's really thinking behind it? "That ship, on the other hand..." he eyes her. "How much do you owe them?"

She doesn't know why she tells him, but she does. His eyebrows raise at the hefty amount but he doesn't comment on it.

"That ship's got three times as much as you need," he tells her. "It's heavily guarded, but that won't be a problem with both of our crews working together. We split the profits and both go away happy." He licks his lips. "You in?"

She's silent.

The whole room is silent, actually, as if waiting on bated breath for the infamous Griffin to make her decision. But she isn't sure. The logical part of her says she shouldn't trust Bellamy.

But there's something about him… something she _does_ trust. It might get her in deeper trouble, but instinctively she chooses to listen to it for now. "I keep your loot for now," she tells him. "As insurance. If we get to this ship you're talking about, you get it back." He nods. She lowers her gun. He breathes out and immediately springs up from position.

"Good, because I need it," he says. She scoffs.

"You're the richest pirate this side of the world. Whatever you have stashed here is only a fraction of what you have. What could you possibly be doing with all your wealth?"

He doesn't answer right away. "I'm retiring from the pirate life. I need all the money I can get."

"Retiring?" she repeats with a laugh. He looks young and attractive as ever, not that she'd ever admit it. "You're not _that_ old."

He sends her a humorless smile and straightens, adjusting his collar. "Are you going to get your crew to back down from mine? They're not going to be much help on this mission if they're dead."

Clarke casts a look around and realizes her Sirens have still been dutifully keeping everyone else at gun or swordpoint. She waves a hand at them, and they relax. She turns her gaze back to Bellamy, just in time to catch him staring blatantly at her lips again. She tries to muster up disgust, but she can't; instead her face feels hot. She takes a step back from him. They're standing too close. "I guess we'd better plan," she tells him pointedly.

He snaps his eyes back to hers, and there it is again— that longing. She supposes she must be the only conquest of his that hasn't fallen right into bed with him. Maybe he sees it as a challenge. But it's _more_ than that, isn't it? Because there's pain in his expression too. It makes him look older than he is. She doesn't understand it.

That look fades after a moment, and she's left looking back into the bottomless dark brown eyes of the Bellamy she hardly knows. "After you," he replies, sweeping his hooked hand in a gesture to the bar to sit down, and that's the start.

—

They set sail a week later, hoping to catch the ship as it passes Madagascar so they won't have to travel as far.

She and Bellamy bicker a lot over who's going to be captain, prompting the eye-rolls of their now joined crew. After they've finally settled on a co-captain agreement, Griffin marvels at the strangeness of having a co-ed crew. Bellamy's crew is comprised mainly of men, with one or two women in the mix; the majority are natives of Madagascar, loyal to him for some reason or another. Her crew, on the other hand, didn't get its name— Sirens— for nothing. It's a little jarring to be on a boat with a bunch of men, and she wonders if it will be a problem. But Bellamy addresses that with an announcement on the very first day.

"Right, listen the hell up!" He commands their gathering crew from where he's hanging on the ladder. "I'm your captain—"

"And so am I," she interjects pointedly. He spares her a glance and a slow, apologetic smile.

"I was getting to that," he tells her, amused. Then he raises his voice again. "I'm your captain, and so is the Griffin here. We will both be addressed that way. Her crew is part of our crew now. And if I see or hear about any kind of harassment between _anyone_ —" His voice takes on a very dangerous note, "there'll hell to pay. Got it?"

A silence has fallen over their people, and Griffin can imagine what they're thinking. Bellamy looks absolutely murderous suddenly, and capable of it. She finds herself wondering, not for the first time, what kind of life he's had.

—

It's smooth sailing for a while, or at least as smooth as it could be with Bellamy around. Bellamy makes it his business to pick some kind of fight with her every morning. And while she shouts at him, he lounges against the railing, looking like he's enjoying every moment. It only infuriates her more.

She's telling this to her first mate, a Siren named Willow, who looks like she's trying to repress a smile.

"What?" Griffin asks, annoyed, crossing her arms.

"Nothing." Willow pales under her brown skin at the glare the Griffin sends her. "I mean, are you sure you're not enjoying it too?"

Her mouth drops open. "What?"

Willow is saved from answering because Bellamy chooses the moment to saunter out of his cabin, wearing a billowy white shirt that complements the rich tone of his skin perfectly, and hair a perfect mess. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, and looked good doing it.

He looks her up and down, yawning. Irritated at how attractive that jawline looks, she snaps at him, "Finally up?"

"You make it sound like it's noon," he protests, but again there's that amused glint in his eye. It never seems to leave. It's like he treats life as a big joke.

"The sun has been up for half an hour already," she tells him, crossing her arms.

"My mistake, then."

She glares at him. "If you're asleep when we encounter the cargo ship, your unconscious body will be the first cannon fodder I throw at them."

He barks a short laugh. "I'll hold you to that, princess." And then he goes on his merry way, strolling past them to go talk to some of his crew standing by the ship's mast.

"See?" Willow says when he's out of earshot. "You just did it again."

Griffin looks at Willow, still feeling residual irritation. "Did what?"

"Tried to start a fight with him," Willow says. Griffin stares at her. "You know, if you enjoy his company that much, you could just go have a drink with him like a normal person."

She's affronted. "I don't _enjoy his company_."

Willow shrugs. "Whatever you say, captain." And then she saunters off, too, leaving the Griffin staring off into space and steaming for no particular reason.

—

She tells herself that Willow doesn't know what she's talking about, and yet.

A day later, she finds herself in the canteen in the evening, when she knows Bellamy is usually there, having a drink with his crew members.

They've already had a few, she can tell it when she enters and a few of his men whistle at her. She'd just taken her coat off before walking in, and she knows her cleavage is nothing to scoff at; still, she simply rolls her eyes and strolls to the bar, but not before she hears Bellamy say, "Leave her alone."

She whips around, drink in hand. Surrounded by his drunken mates, he's lounging at one of the tables, feet kicked up on it and his eyes fixed on hers. "Oh, am I all yours to harass, is that it?"

Bellamy doesn't answer right away. She's about to turn away when he quietly says, "You are entirely your own, Clarke."

Her eyebrows raise. Firstly, he doesn't sound drunk at all, and she notices there's only one cup in his hand and it's still full. Secondly, the _reverence_ with which he called her… "Clarke?"

He looks surprised, blinking a few times, and she gets the feeling this was a slip-up on his part somehow. Then he shrugs easily. "Never mind."

But she _does_.

Making a decision, she strides over briskly to his table. One of the men who'd whistled at her is sitting in a chair right beside Bellamy. She looks down at him. "Get up."

He looks unwilling to move, but Bellamy prods, "Be a gentleman for once in your life, Isaac."

Isaac sighs loudly and gets up, moving to the bar for more to drink. She sits down primly in his vacated seat and sips from her bottle. When she lowers it, Bellamy is studying her. She doesn't say anything. She doesn't know _what_ to say yet; Willow's words are just echoing in the back of her mind. It's time to find out if she's right.

"You want to say something to me?" he asks lightly.

"No," she replies equally lightly. "My feet were tired, so I sat down. Is that a problem?"

He leans back in his chair. "Course not."

Seeing that she's not itching to start talking, Bellamy returns to whatever conversation he was having with his crew, and Clarke observes. His crew listen to him, she can see that; but they also joke with him like they're all friends. He has their respect. Probably because he listens to them just as attentively.

In the middle of the conversation, he pulls his pistol out of his thigh holster and starts taking it apart to clean it, methodically, as the dialogue continues. They're on the topic of his bar in Madagascar, and how business has been slim as of late when she decides to engage with him again.

"It's the location," Bellamy is saying. "Madagascar's too far removed from most pirate routes. Tortuga had far more business." There's a wistful air with which he says this, and she gives him a sharp look, finally interjecting.

"You act like you've been there."

"Who says I haven't?"

She snorts, folding her arms. "Because pirates were run out of Tortuga what, thirty years ago?" The others murmur in agreement. That was why Madagascar had become a new safe haven for pirates. She gives him a once over. "Somehow I can't picture baby Bellamy hopping over to Tortuga for a drink. You don't look more than thirty years old yourself. "

"Well, you keep me young," he replies, and once again, there's that sparkle to his eyes— like he's indulging in some private joke that no one else understands. Today, however, it's not irritation that flares in her. It's a strange feeling instead, one that wells up in her stomach as she registers the bitter tinge to his words. She just doesn't understand it.

"You're a real piece of work," she tells him while the men laugh raucously, but there's not much passion behind it.

"I could say the same about you." He sounds fond when he says it, though. His eyes bore into hers, and it's almost a little discomfiting until she realizes she hasn't noticed him looking at her lips once this entire encounter, and she almost gets the feeling that he's actively resisting the urge to.

She's intrigued by him, she decides as she leaves the canteen that night to take her turn on watch. Not necessarily in the way that Willow suggested, but nonetheless, he's interesting. She wants to know him.

—

So she begins making an effort to seek him out, and not to argue.

He seems to think it's coincidence the first few times, but the fourth night that she plops down in the chair next to him at the canteen he asks, "What is this? Why do you keep coming here?"

She tilts her head at him, pushing her blonde hair out of her face. "I wasn't aware me and my crew weren't allowed in the canteen." As time has passed, their crews have begun to mingle more, and tonight the canteen is lively with the laughter of both the Sirens and Bellamy's Madagascar crew. The two of them eventually find themselves tucked into a corner by themselves.

"You know what I meant," he replies. She shrugs. He goes on. "Thought you hated me."

She thinks he sounds almost guarded, and she looks at him. He doesn't look amused for once. He looks like he's trying to figure out her game.

She smiles inwardly. That makes two of them.

She sends him what she hopes is a mysterious and sultry smile and holds out her empty glass. He takes the hint and pours her some of his. He doesn't take his eyes off her, apparently awaiting an answer, so she replies, "Keep thinking, then."

—

It becomes routine. It becomes casual.

They start beginning the day with a walk around the ship together, checking in on their crew as a united front. Their solidarity seems to have an effect on the rest— they work more easily with each other than they did before.

He walks in on her doodling on a piece of parchment and, embarrassed, she tries to hide it. But he doesn't ask to see it. He doesn't even seem surprised that she draws. He just smiles, like it's endearing to him, and launches into a rant about the rapidly depleting food stores.

(That one becomes an argument, but somehow it resolves itself. In laughter. How did that happen?)

She finds out that Bellamy takes apart and cleans his gun every night. She's not sure he even realizes he does it. It's absentminded on his part, in the middle of talking; akin to fidgeting for him.

"Maybe you should have a gun for a hand instead of a hook," she remarks one morning, while they stand on deck in a lull between work. The atmosphere on the ship is tense, seeing as they're close to where they will meet the Moors, and the horizon shows that a storm is coming. Great timing.

He scoffs, the furrow in his brow smoothing out. He tucks his gun back into his belt. "That wouldn't be practical."

"Oh, of course. A hook is the height of practicality."

There's a glint of amusement in his dark eyes. "It's more useful than you think." To emphasize this he reaches up and catches his hook around the rope they use to adjust the sails.

She snorts. "I'm not impressed."

"What would it take to impress you?"

"If you caught fish with it."

One of Bellamy's eyebrows quirks up.

Twenty minutes later, she can't fight back her grin as he and his first mate drag a barrel of ocean water across the deck to where she's standing.

"I never said it was a challenge," she laughs.

Bellamy produces his hooked hand with a flourish and rolls his sleeve up his muscled forearm. "You implied it." And with that his arm darts into the water, fast as any harpoon she's ever seen.

The rest of their crew gather around in interest of what their captains are doing— she hears them taking bets on whether he'll be able to do it. It takes a little (a lot) of him waving his hook around, and by the end of it both of them are soaking wet from all the water splashing out of the barrel. But finally he triumphantly produces his hook, a grin gracing his features as they all behold the fish he's managed to capture, wriggling on the hook.

The crew roars with laughter and she laughs too, and his grin only grows wider at the sight of her.

"Impressed?" he asks, watching her with his ever patient gaze.

"It's just a little minnow."

"That's not what I asked." He daintily plucks the still wriggling fish off his hook and flings it overboard. His shirt is plastered to his chest from the water, and she finds her breath catching to see his golden skin gleaming so clearly through the thin white material.

The rest of the crew begins dispersing, now that the spectacle is over. Her smile doesn't seem to want to go away today. She relents. "Very impressive, Bellamy."

"I can rest easy now that I have your approval." He shakes his head vigorously; water flies everywhere. Droplets land on her, but she's not too bothered. She's already drenched. She looks down at her dress with dismay. It's molded to her like a second skin, and she can feel her hair frizzing up from the water and the humidity.

"You got me all wet," she complains, and then belatedly realizes how that might sound, and where Bellamy might take that.

But he doesn't. He's silent, and when she glances up, he's looking at her intensely. So intensely that her heart rate kicks up in response.

"Bellamy…" she says slowly.

He cocks his head to indicate he's listening.

"Stop looking at me like that."

He blinks. "Like what?"

"Like…" Her voice feels thick. _Like you want to consume me. Like I've already consumed you_. "Like that."

He stares at her another moment, and she feels heat sweep through her face. He tears his gaze away finally, turning his face towards the ocean, and the strong winds that have started to blow in. "I don't know how to stop." His voice is rough. "Not sure I can."

"Why?" she asks in barely a whisper. It begins to rain. "We hardly even know each other." Somehow the sentence feels wrong, even though it's technically true.

His knuckles whiten in their grip on the railing. She watches him swallow in profile, his eyelashes sweeping down to his cheeks. He doesn't answer.

But she _needs_ answers, and the questions keep coming. "Why do you act like this? Why'd you try to kiss me that first day we met?"

Bellamy finally just sends her a slightly sardonic smile. "Kiss me and find out," he replies.

She doesn't. Kiss him to find out, that is.

She kisses him because his voice is soft, because his dark eyes seem to find the light in her effortlessly, because he makes her smile and feel at peace in a way she never thought was possible; she kisses him because the sun shines on his skin, throws the loveliness of his sharp edges into relief and makes her want to touch them; mostly, she kisses him because she _wants_ to kiss him.

She can tell that he's caught off guard when she angles her head and ducks closer, frozen when she presses her lips against his, but then he relaxes into it. His lips are full and soft— how she imagined them. Her hand finds the back of his neck, curling into the ends of his damp hair as the rain begins to fall in earnest. His hand simply finds where her dress collar has slipped to her shoulder, and with the rest of his hand resting on her clothed shoulder, his thumb strokes burning circles into the exposed skin of her collarbone.

The simple touch somehow sends her spiralling, and she's disoriented when he pulls back far too quickly. Blinking dazedly, she realizes he's studying her, hand still on her shoulder.

It's almost a clinical eye and she shifts on her feet a little uncomfortably. "What?" she asks uncertainly. She's suddenly doubting that she read the signals right.

Without replying, Bellamy looks away and his expression shifts slightly, to something she could swear is almost like disappointment.

Her hand slides from the back of his neck to his jaw to tilt his head, forcing him to look in her eyes. "Bellamy," she says. "What's wrong?"

And just like that, whatever shadow there was in his expression is gone, so suddenly that she wonders if it were ever there at all. "Nothing. Everything's fine."

She's still unconvinced, but before she can reply there's a tremendous gust of wind, hitting the side of the ship and causing it to rock slightly. There are alarmed shouts from all over. She staggers, but Bellamy, who'd had his hook anchored around the railing, stays in place and snags her elbow with his free hand to prevent her from falling over.

"Thanks," she gasps, straightening and following his gaze to the horizon. Grey clouds are gathering, stirring menacingly in the otherwise blue morning sky. They're going into a—

"Storm," Bellamy murmurs, looking a little troubled. "Even worse than we thought it would be."

She chews her lip. "According to our maps, we're close to crossing paths with the cargo ship. We'll reach them today."

"You want to keep going?" Bellamy asks. The wind is picking up now, howling around them.

She glances around, notices the crew is listening in, and they look ready to accept whatever command she issues. She turns back to Bellamy. "We've come this far already. We're so close." People around her nod in agreement, but her eyes are on him. "What do you think?"

"I came up with the plan in the first place," he points out lightly, and raises his voice to the rest of the crew. "You heard her. We're going to be in a storm. We'd better prepare now if we want to be ready to fight and take the riches we've been looking for. And then? We'll be set for life!" His voice rises to a roar, and their people cheer.

His eyes connect back with hers, and that's when it happens.

A sudden jolt of pain through her head that makes her close her eyes, and blinding, flashing light behind her eyelids. She takes a step back involuntarily.

And then…

Clarke remembers.

When she opens her eyes, Bellamy is striding off down the deck, their people are dispersing, and she's rooted to the spot, unable to move.

She remembers everything— she remembers she died, but she kept coming back. She grew up in his orphanage in the Philippines. Had that incredibly huge crush on him. And now she's here, where every comment he's made is starting to make sense. Bellamy… somehow, he's been alive this whole time. She remembers what the witch said, and it all clicks in place.

 _Now_ she gets it. She understands that what she mistook as lust when he looked down at her lips was really just a longing for his best friend.

She's barely cognisant that she's moving forward. She hears Willow asking her something but she ignores it, brushing past.

Clarke catches up to Bellamy when he reaches the door of his cabin, grabbing his hand where it's placed on the knob. He looks sideways at her, startled, and then realization dawns.

"Clarke," he says simply. It sounds like a question. She can't find it in herself to do anything but nod, nod furiously, with tears blurring her eyes and a sob threatening to rise in her throat.

There are no other words needed. Bellamy instantly turns away from the door and sweeps her into a hug, a body-crushing tight one that lifts her almost off her feet. It's like the strong winds around them go still when he touches her— the roar of the ocean and storm front fades and then there's just the sound of his breathing.

She wraps her arms around him, marvelling that her remembrance of their history together makes being pressed against him so much more thrilling, like she's home for the first time in years. In centuries, really.

He buries his nose into her neck, breath shuddering in his chest. "I missed you." He sounds on the verge of tears. "God, Clarke, I missed you so much. Even when you were right here in front of me."

She loses her battle against her own tears, feeling their hot warmth slip from her eyes. "I'm here now." They continue to sway in place. Clarke doesn't even want to move from here, not ever.

But she pulls away eventually, because she has _questions_. "You're immortal."

He grimaces. "Not invulnerable, but I guess so."

"Did you marry Jane?"

If possible, he looks even more grave. "Yes, but— long story. I'll tell you later." Her heart falls a bit, but she presses on.

"Did you marry anyone else after that?"

He shakes his head. "No."

That makes her feel marginally better, but. "I can't believe I was living with you for six _years_ and you never kissed me." They could have had so much more time together.

"No offense, Clarke," Bellamy replies. "I like kids, but not that way."

Trust his sense of honour to come into play at the most inconvenient times. "I had a crush on you," she admits.

"I knew." Embarrassing, Clarke thinks, but before she can dwell on it he goes on. "Just a crush, though. You probably grew up and forgot all about me." That sentence is loaded.

"I _never_ forgot about you." She runs her hand over his jaw. "I even tried to get back to you at first, you know. But then…"

"Life happened," he finishes quietly. "Six years of your childhood became a memory. I get it."

Her eyes burn with tears and she feels inexplicably guilty.

"It's okay, Clarke," he tells her, reading her mind. "You were a kid. Kids are like that. It's not something you would have been able to control."

She takes a breath and asks another burning question, wanting to get away from this topic that hurts her. She gestures at his hook. "Seriously, what happened to your hand?"

He sighs, recognizing her scolding tone of voice. "It was just a fishing accident."

"You should've been more careful." He shrugs, and she feels compelled to add, "I'm sorry that happened to you." It must have been painful. She can't imagine.

"Don't be," he replies immediately. "I'm used to it, now. Like I said, it's useful. I almost wouldn't have it any other way." He shoots her a wry grin, teases his hook down her cheek. The metal is cold against her skin, but his gaze on her makes her feel far too warm.

He's handsome as ever; he really hasn't aged one bit. It suddenly occurs to her that she hasn't had sex with her husband in over five hundred years.

She reaches around him and turns the knob, pushing his door open. His eyebrow raises when she pushes lightly at his chest, making him fall back a few steps into the darkened cabin. She matches him step for step.

"What are you doing?" The gravelly quality of his voice tells her he knows exactly what she's doing.

"Do you remember the last time we had sex?" As she speaks, she runs her fingers down the buttons from his collar, toying with them.

That's apparently all the encouragement he needs; he pokes his head out the door and barks at the nearest crewman, "Isaac is in charge until me and Clarke come out, got it?"

"No, _Willow's_ in charge," Clarke says sharply, folding her arms.

"Isaac and Willow are in charge," Bellamy amends.

The crewman looks between the two of them, a grin on his face that tells Clarke the entire crew is going to know about this in about five minutes.

Bellamy adds, "Don't bother us unless we come upon the Moors' ship or someone's about to die. And even then, think twice."

" _Bellamy_ ," Clarke chides with a laugh, but he's already swung the door shut and turned to her.

"Don't give me that," he murmurs, ducking his head to trace her jawline with his lips. She tilts her head up, eyes falling shut. "You were thinking it too."

Instead of answering, she kisses him again, and then it's frantic. Her hands find the buttons of his shirt. His find the strings holding her dress tight to her body, working at the knots.

"You're not with anyone right now, are you?" he asks while she drops her dress, letting it pool at her feet.

"No. Are you?"

He shakes his head. "Finally," he growls, just as another gust of wind rocks the ship violently, and they both stumble, unprepared.

It's the storm, but a storm isn't going to stop Clarke now. He seems to be of the same mindset because he hardly pauses in kissing her as they pull each others' clothes off.

The next rocking of the ship sends them tumbling into his bed, which Clarke doesn't mind at all. The rest of their clothes come off. He kisses down her body, latches his mouth on her breast, and his hand slides down her stomach and between her legs.

"No teasing," she's about to say sternly, but he's apparently ahead of her. His fingers thrust inside her without hardly any ceremony, and the urgency of it only contributes to the fire that's setting her lower body alight.

"No teasing," he agrees. His hook scrapes against her stomach.

"Get that thing off before you accidentally gut me," she says in between kisses.

He chuckles, unstraps the harness and chucks the hook across the room. It makes a heavy clunking sound when it hits the wall. Lazily, she wraps her legs around him as he lines up with her entrance.

He pauses, eyes closed, and with an impatient sound she rocks her hips in an attempt to urge him on. He presses her back down into the mattress with one large hand over her lower stomach.

She thinks he's teasing her, but his eyes open and they're shiny. "I thought this would never happen again," he confesses. "Thought I'd never get to touch you like this again." He runs two fingers up the side of her body, up the swell of her breast, and she shudders. He drops down to his elbows, his body curving down onto hers, pressing their foreheads together.

"If you don't get inside me right this minute, you won't," she threatens him breathlessly. He huffs a laugh against her lips, and then he's pushing inside her, pushing her open, filling every piece of her with a piece of himself.

The ship rocks again as they move against each other; the wind is howling against the cabin wall, making the wood groan. They brace themselves against the mattress so they won't topple. Neither of them stops. She rocks her hips against him, and he groans. They've known each other so long that they both know exactly what to do and how to touch to drive the other crazy with lust.

Just then, the ship rocks so intensely, that the two of them, caught off guard, roll, nearly off the bed. They get their bearings at the last minute, with Clarke on top. The wind howls outside, but they hardly even pause.

"Maybe we should stop," she murmurs through her haze of pleasure when the ship rocks again. It's the hardest thing she's ever had to say.

His hand tightens on her hip. "I'm gonna fuck you if it's the last damn thing I do," he growls.

The rain pattering on the walls reaches impossibly loud volume. "It might be," she laughs.

"But what a way to go," he rumbles, rolling against her in a very deliberate way, hitting a spot deep inside her that hasn't been touched in a very long time, and she loses her ability to do anything but gasp for a while.

—

Clarke isn't sure how much time passes with them lounging in that bed, but eventually he voices her thought that they should go outside and check on their crew.

It's still a dose of reality, and as she's retying the top of her dress, she's overcome with fear. Her hands begin to shake. He notices, closing in behind her to tie her dress.

"What's wrong?" he asks lowly.

She swallows. "We're in the middle of a storm, about to try and loot a merchant ship. Doesn't that sound risky to you?"

"Risky is our line of business." She can hear him grinning. She whips around, and his smile fades at her expression.

"If we die today…" She swallows. "We're separated. _Again_. I'm not sure I can deal with that anymore, Bellamy."

He's quiet for just a moment, studying her. "Come with me," he says abruptly.

"What?"

"Come home with me," he repeats. "To Madagascar. We can turn this ship around right now. Use some of the loot I have to pay off your debts, and then… you can come live with me."

She can picture it all in her head. Going back, and lounging on the hot beach with him for the rest of her days, safe from harm. It sounds like heaven, she muses as she turns over the possibility in her head. "But… you're immortal. I'm not. I'll get old."

Bellamy doesn't seem bothered by this prospect at all. "So? When you die, I'll just go with you. Then I'll be back in the reincarnation cycle."

For some reason one thing in that statement niggles at her. She puts her hands on her hips, almost offended. "Who says _I'll_ die first?"

He cocks an eyebrow up. "Why not? Old age."

"You're not invulnerable. You can die at any time, if someone kills you," she points out.

He spreads his hands wide. "I've survived this long."

"Maybe your luck is running out."

He smiles. "After today, maybe you're right." He rubs his chin. "I'll tell you what. Let's make a bet."

"A bet?" she repeats, a little caught off guard.

He nods seriously. "I bet all my riches you'll die first. Old age. If I'm wrong, you can come collect in the next life."

Clarke has never been one to back down from that, but… "What if someone else has already taken all your treasure by then?" she snorts.

"I've thought about that," he replies. "I've been building up resources and hiding them away for decades. So that if we need, we can find them later in different lifetimes."

She's a little impressed despite herself. "That was thoughtful of you."

He half-smiles. "Yeah, well, you're rubbing off on me."

Before she can ask what she owes him if he's right, there's a knock on the door, and they both jump apart, whipping their heads in the direction of the noise. Willow's voice sounds. "Clarke, come out! We've found the merchant ship!"

Clarke freezes, heart thundering. Just a moment ago, she was entertaining the possibility of backing away from this all now, but the excitement in Willow's voice makes her pause. The treasure doesn't mean anything much to her anymore, but to the crew? It's everything. This is the trip that makes their whole lives as pirates worth it.

Can she deprive them of that out of her own selfishness?

Bellamy lets out a haggard sigh, probably thinking the same thing. "We're coming," he barks at the door, and turns to her. "What's the verdict, princess?"

She shakes her head helplessly, not having an answer, and pushes forward to the door. Opening it, she realizes something very strange. It's sunny out, and the waters are almost calm— as distracted as she'd been, she hadn't noticed the rain had stopped. Walking towards the helm of the ship, she finally halts, realizing that there is a solid wall of dark clouds about twenty kilometers into the distance, where the towering thunderstorms they emerged from are still lurking. She turns on the spot, turns all the way around, and sees that they are surrounded by them.

They are in the eye of the storm, she realizes dazedly. An eye fifty kilometers wide.

"We had to sail into the eye," Willow says next to her. She nearly jumps, not having noticed her first mate approach. "The ship wasn't built for the conditions of this cyclone. Lucky for us, looks like the Moors' ship wasn't either." She points into the distance, where Clarke squints and sees another ship in the eye with them. "Might as well get them now, while we're in the calm weather, right?"

"Right," Clarke says slowly. "So there's no way we can get out of this storm?"

"Not until it dissipates." Willow shakes her head. "Until then, we're trapped."

Of course they're trapped, Clarke thinks. Why not? Why should there be an easy out for her and Bellamy for once?

"There it is," Willow says, blissfully ignorant of Clarke's thought process. "That's our loot." Her voice turns wondrous. "Bellamy's right, isn't he? We'll be set for life."

"Damn right I am," Bellamy says from behind them. He must have heard the whole conversation. "Full speed ahead, and then we all go into comfortable retirement."

He's saying that last part for her benefit, but Clarke's mouth tightens with worry.

"Hey," Bellamy says quietly, and she nearly jumps when his fingers brush against hers. "We've survived worse."

Clarke snorts at the thought. "No, we haven't. That's the problem."

—

The Moors' ship, of course, sees them coming from a mile away. But there's not much they can do, considering they're all trapped in the eye of the cyclone together, and their firepower is measly compared to the pirates'.

Once they roll down their pirate colours, the merchants surrender. It isn't difficult to secure lines to swing aboard the other ship, or to hold their crew at gunpoint and swordpoint as the Sirens and Bellamy's people traipse back and forth carrying barrels and barrels of loot. The scene reminds Clarke a lot of the one back in the tavern in Madagascar, actually.

They're almost done when Clarke sidles up to Bellamy. He keeps his gun trained on the captain of the Moors' ship as she speaks quietly to him.

"We're almost done," she says, unable to stop a small amount of excitement from entering her voice. "And the storm's almost dying down, do you hear it?"

"That's right," he replies. He's become a lot more terse since boarding the ship. "Almost."

That last word is said darkly, but Clarke can't be bothered with pessimism right at this moment, not when they're about to escape with the biggest heap of treasure any pirate this side of the world has ever seen. Maybe it will actually work, she finds herself thinking.

It doesn't work.

 _Almost_ should never be considered a promise, as it turns out. Because a moment later another ship appears in the eye of the storm, apparently seeking refuge just like the other two ships. But unlike the other two ships, this one flies the flag of the British Navy.

That's when things get ugly.

—

When the British realize what they have found— Bellamy's ship is well known to their Naval forces— the Moors' ship becomes a battlefield, with the Navy forces coming on board to rescue the merchants. It quickly becomes clear that the pirates will be outgunned in this particular battle. The British are too well armed, and they fight hard, knowing exactly who these two pirates are. They've got a two-for-one deal laid out for their taking and everyone knows it.

"Retreat!" Clarke yells, because that's their only hope now. Seeing as they're being pushed back anyway, the pirates obey hastily, swinging down their connecting grappling lines back to their own ship. Meanwhile, the storm has more or less dissipated around them. An escape is possible.

Almost, anyway.

Because at the end, it's Clarke and Bellamy who are the last ones left on the Moors' ship, desperately trying to fend off the British long enough to get back onto their grappling lines.

"Go, Clarke," Bellamy yells at her when it becomes clear that won't happen. He fires off a few more rounds as Clarke pauses to stare at him. "Go. I'll cut the lines once you're across."

"You're insane if you think I'm letting you do that," she shouts back, skewering another Brit with her sword. She wrenches her weapon out of his gut and backs up as three more advance on her.

"Clarke." He sounds exasperated. "Please, I'll find you again in the next life. Just go."

Clarke looks at him, at his utter look of defeat and then back at the grappling lines, which the British are going for now as well. She realizes in a panic that they're looking to board the pirates' ship. So she makes an impulsive decision. She raises her bloody sword and cuts the lines in one fell swoop.

They seem to fall in slow motion towards the ocean. She looks up and sees her people, distantly, on their ship watching. They're too far to properly make out their faces, but she knows they understand the message— to leave, and split the riches that they've got.

Clarke and Bellamy will get another chance at life. Their crews won't.

She turns back around. The two of them are entirely surrounded. In the background the Moor merchant captain is looking very smug.

"Clarke." Bellamy sounds near tears. "Why didn't you listen to me?"

She turns to him. His gun must be empty, because he's got his sword in hand now, but it's dangling listlessly as he watches her. He knows the fight is over, too. The British, advancing, watch them warily.

"Surrender!" one shouts.

Ignoring them, Clarke takes the few steps forward she needs to put her right next to him. "You would've lost our bet if I listened to you."

He stares at her for a moment and then turns his face away from her, back towards their ship, now sailing fast and safe into the distance towards the afternoon sun. "Now we both lose instead," he says quietly, and then their hands are being wrenched behind their backs and they're dragged away from each other.

—

They're kept separate the entire way back to Britain. Clarke doesn't see Bellamy for weeks, doesn't know what's happened to him. But when they dock and the dark burlap sack is pulled off her head, she finds herself in a dark room with him, surrounded by guards.

He looks a little gaunt, dirty and worse for wear, which she suspects is how she looks as well. Nevertheless, she's happy to see him. "Bellamy," she cries, and instinctively surges towards him, only to be held back by ropes cutting into her wrists and tying her to the opposite wall.

He watches her attempt with shuttered eyes, and with a shaky sigh turns his eyes to the ceiling. "Stay still."

She jerks at her bonds again, with only the desire to get to him on her mind. One of the guards stalks over and slaps her across the face. She gasps more out of surprise than in pain.

"Struggle all you want," the guard sneers as she attempts to shake it off. "You're both about to be hanged, anyway."

All Clarke can do is stare in disbelief, now tuning in to the distant sound outside of someone speaking loudly. She can't make out the words, but it sounds like a speech. Turning her head from side to side, she's astounded to note that she and Bellamy aren't the only ones tied up here—there's at least a dozen others awaiting their end. The dreaded pirate hangings.

"Don't look so surprised," the guard says. "Your kind are dying off. Face it," he addresses Bellamy now, "the age of pirates is over. And we'll all be glad to see the rest of you scum hang." He spits in Clarke's face. Bellamy growls.

He walks away, back to the first two prisoners at the front of the line-up, who are wrenched to their feet and led out of the room. A distant cheer soon follows, and Clarke turns back to Bellamy desperately.

"I'm sorry," Bellamy says suddenly, before she can speak.

"For what?"

"For not keeping you safe," he says, sounding miserable. "I was supposed to. I told myself I would, but instead, it's just like every other time. As soon as we meet, we die."

"It's—it's not related," she says automatically, but he's already shaking his head.

"Isn't it? Tell me something, Clarke—how long did you live when you went back to Spain in the last life?" Her silence makes his lips twist up into a bitter smile. "I bet you didn't die violently. You lived long because we separated."

The words set into her chest painfully, knocking the breath from her lungs. She bows her head. He goes on, voice flat.

"You probably made lots of good friends. Got married, and got to live with them for most of your life. Maybe you had some kids."

"Stop it," she snaps.

"Got to watch them grow up. Maybe even to see them have kids of their own."

"I get it, okay?" Tears are running down her cheeks, but she can't wipe them away with her hands behind her back. "You and I are doomed, you're right."

"Don't say that," he responds.

"Why not?" she demands angrily. "Isn't that what you want?"

"No. I don't want to be right." He closes his eyes, tips his head back. The despair settles again, as another pair of pirates are taken out of the room. There's two more pairs before her and Bellamy.

"It's funny," Clarke says, and he opens his eyes again. "I couldn't figure out what the djinn got out of reincarnating us, but now I know."

He nods, following her line of thought. "It wasn't a gift. It was a curse."

The ensuing silence is brief and bitter, at least until Clarke speaks again.

"You know what else that djinn said?" Clarke says to him. "She said we'd live again, but whether we fell in love again was up to us." She feels empty inside. "Maybe—we were never really meant to be?"

That gets a surprising reaction out of him; he opens his eyes and looks at her, really looks at her. "Clarke."

But his pessimism has infected her, too, and she can't stop. "I fell in love with Mstislav. You fell in love with Jane and—probably so many others."

" _Clarke_ ," Bellamy says again, and he shifts to lean forward, as if he could force her to look at him with just the intensity of his stare. "Listen to me. You can't think like that."

He doesn't deny her words, though, and tears prickle in her eyes. The sadness threatens to overwhelm her. "You've loved so many other people. Probably more than you loved me. And like you said, you probably actually got to be happy with them."

"Clarke," he barks this time, making her look up. His expression is almost ferocious. "Stop assuming how I feel. Do you think any of this has been easy for me? Living centuries— _centuries—_ without you?" His voice breaks slightly at the end of that sentence. It's like a splash of cold water to the face; she shakes her head adamantly even before he finishes his sentence.

"No, of course not. I'm—I'm sorry, Bellamy. It's just, you're right. This keeps happening to us. Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something. Maybe we weren't meant to be." It's terrifying to think. "Maybe we were only meant to happen once."

He shakes his head as another pair of pirates are dragged out. "No, Clarke. Maybe we'll fall in love with a thousand different people in our lifetimes. But you…" he shakes his head, as if amazed. "But you, Clarke, I've already fallen in love with _you_ a thousand times, in a thousand different ways."

Those words send her into a spiral. She starts to cry in earnest, although she doesn't know why anymore. Really, it's a take-your-pick kind of situation.

He goes on, fierce now. "Maybe we're doomed to never be together. Fine. But don't doubt what I feel about you, Clarke."

"I won't," she whispers, pauses to swallow, to gather moisture in her dry mouth. "For what it's worth, I feel the same. About you. Always."

She listens to his steady breathing and thinks that maybe this, between them, is what makes it worth it—what makes all the suffering worth it. Even if it's brief, only small moments that they get to grasp together between hundreds of years, she'll take it.

And that's what inspires her to say, "Fuck the djinn."

He tilts his head at her in the gloom of the holding cell.

"She got off on thinking we'd suffer," she says to him strongly. "But we only suffer if we choose to. Let's not give her the satisfaction anymore. Let's not let her break us."

He smiles grimly as the last pair of pirates before them are escorted out. "I think that ship has already sailed."

"No, it hasn't," Clarke insists. "Bellamy, if there's one upside to this whole thing, it's that I got to see you again. I got to touch you again. I got to love you again." She sees this register in his eyes and plunges on. "That's a gift I won't ever regret. Not for a second." She swallows and throws her heart out there. "I'm happy as long as we can be in the same world together, even if it's just for a few days." He's silent. "Do you… do you feel the same way?"

He doesn't speak for a very long time, and then all at once she watches his gaze on her intensify. "I really wish I could kiss you right now." For the first time in the conversation, there's a genuine smile underlying the words.

She hadn't realized how anxiously she was awaiting his response until she lets out a little relieved laugh. "You can kiss me in the next life," she says lightly. "Maybe it'll be easier then." She tugs at the restraints for effect.

"It better be," he agrees, equally lightly. "Unless I get reincarnated as a fish, or something."

She giggles. "I don't think that's possible. We both look exactly the same as we did in our first life." She frowns with a sudden thought. "How is that possible, do you think?"

He shrugs. "Hell if I know. Maybe we're descendants of ourselves." He huffs, seemingly amused by this possibility. "That's pretty screwed up."

Her giggles become full-blown laughter, and then she can't help it anymore, and he's joining in. If the guards, or any of the other pirates, have found this entire conversation odd at all, they haven't given any indication.

"Time to go," one of them says, nodding to Bellamy, and both of them shut up immediately.

There's a change on his face, too, as the guards start towards them both.

"Are you scared?" Clarke asks quietly.

He meets her eyes. His own are round. "Terrified," he admits. "I haven't died in a long time."

"It's not so bad," she says, tilting her head at him while the guards shove her up. "Dying is easy."

A smile plays on his lips. "Yeah, well, you've had more practice at it than me."

"I could probably do it in my sleep now," she replies with a straight face, and is rewarded with the hint of a smile turning into a full blown grin.

"That's the dream, isn't it?" The guards push them towards the door; he cranes his neck over to look at her. She's relieved to see he doesn't look afraid anymore, just calm. "See you later, Clarke."

She smiles back. "Until next time, Bellamy." A bag is thrown over her head, but not before she drinks in his warm brown eyes one last time.

"And the time after," he whispers back, still right next to her.

She nods even though he can't see. "And again, and again and again. Until the earth blows up."

"And then we'll probably wake up on Mars."

She laughs, and so does he, and then a crowd roars in front of them. She loses track of him despite straining her ears over the noise.

So Clarke awaits their hanging, not feeling very afraid at all. Maybe what they need is a new start anyway. She'll find him again—she always does. It's not over.

She pushes away the sadness still lingering at the edges of her consciousness and focuses on the one thing that matters, focuses on it until it's all she sees. Until it's thrumming through her veins with restless energy for what's still to come.

Hope.

.

 _Forever isn't long at all, as long as I'm with you._ —A.A. Milne

.

* * *

 **A/N: I swear there's a point to all this. If you stick around for the third and last part, anyway. Which may still take a bit to get written (even though it should be shorter than this was!) because I'm busy with exam crunch-time. It will feature… well, since it's the conclusion I suppose I may as well leave it a surprise this time. But I think it will be a little lighter in tone.**

 **If you have a moment, it always really makes my day to get reviews and I will appreciate you a lot. Thank you!**

 **wellsjahasghost on tumblr**


	3. Chapter 3

— 1961: BERLIN (GERMANY) —

Bellamy marries Clarke on a warm August evening.

He doesn't really _want_ to. But his five-year old sister Sarah wanders over to his bedroom where he's sitting organizing his collectible baseball cards, and she tugs on his sleeve and whines _C'mon, Benji_ , because she wants him to help her and her friends with the game that they're playing. He says no, because he's almost ten years old and he just wants to sort his cards, dammit. But then Sarah goes and gets their mother, who forces him to follow his sister (a little sullenly) to the apartment balcony, where all her friends are waiting.

"What do you want," he snaps, irritable. Three of his sister's friends sit cross-legged on the floor of the cramped little balcony, a space not more than a few strides wide.

"We're having a wedding," Sarah announces. "Clarissa is the bride, 'cuz she's wearing white. And we needed someone for her to get married to."

He crosses his arms, eyeing Clarissa. She's blonde, with a rounded face, and indeed she's the only one wearing white; a white, frilly dress with lacy blue accents that complement her big blue eyes. When he looks at her she stands on her chubby legs and holds out her hands excitedly.

"Why don't one of _you_ just marry her?" he asks, looking at them all. This is such a stupid game.

Clarissa tilts her head at him, almost as if considering the suggestion. The rest look at him like he's an idiot.

"We need a groom, silly," Sarah giggles, and grabs his hand and puts it in Clarissa's. "Now stand there. You're about to get married, aren't you happy?"

No, he is not, he muses. He doesn't look at Clarissa while Sarah starts spouting out a long and rather nonsensical version of wedding vows. Bored, he looks out across the street, where he can see people walking up and down the sidewalk, and where cars are zooming past them.

He tunes back in only because Sarah says proudly, "You may now kiss the bride."

He balks. Clarissa is already leaning in, but she's too short, even when she's stretching her neck up and standing on her tip-toes. "Uh, _no_ ," he says uncomfortably. But then he sees Clarissa's face fall and oh god _no_ there are tears glistening in her eyes.

"She can't be married until you kiss the bride," another one of Sarah's friends whines while he internally panics. If one of Sarah's friends starts crying, it'll end up being his fault and he'll probably get in trouble.

Floundering, he finally just leans down to press a kiss to Clarissa's cheek instead. But she turns her face towards him at the last second— his lips land on the corner of her mouth.

Instantly, he shoots back up to full height and lets go of her hands. Sarah and her friends are cooing, but he's blushing, and Clarissa's blushing too, a small shy smile spreading on her lips. She claps her hands over her own mouth and giggles.

"You are now husband and wife!" his sister yells, jumping up and down with the rest of them, but he doesn't really hear them, because suddenly a sharp pain splits through his skull, and he yelps in pain.

There's a flash of light behind his eyelids, and when he opens them, he and Clarissa are staring at each other in shock.

He's suddenly being bombarded with images, memories, some of which he doesn't even understand. He staggers back, falling against the railing and sinking against it. His headache is growing. He can't wrap his mind around any of the feelings or half the adult memories that are suddenly rising in his mind. He feels— he feels too _much_. Emotions are bombarding him from every angle, and he can't process a single one.

The one thing he can process is this: His name is Bellamy.

And hers— his eyes snap to Clarissa's— her name is _Clarke_.

As if on cue, Clarke's face crumples, and she collapses to the floor. The girls still haven't noticed the breakdown of the newlyweds, so joyful in celebration as they are. At least, until Clarke starts _screaming_.

Everyone flinches.

But she doesn't stop. She just keeps screaming and screaming and screaming, hands clamped against her head and eyes scrunched up as if in agony. The other girls start crying and screaming for help, too, and Bellamy's mother runs onto the balcony, looking alarmed.

No one can get Clarke to stop screaming.

Bellamy, still in the background, frozen in shock, knows what's happening to her. She's five— A five year old getting hundreds of years worth of memories. It's too much for her. It's almost too much for him. It takes all his energy just to stand upright, but no one seems to notice his struggle. He doesn't understand his memories, or even know where to begin in sifting through them, but one thing is very clear to his nine year old mind, completely absurd but completely true somehow: this girl is his _wife_.

Clarke only stops screaming when she passes out a full three minutes later.

She's sent home, which is a few streets west, and Bellamy skulks near the phone later, eavesdropping on the worried and quiet conversation between his mother and Clarke's. Clarke still isn't well, apparently. She woke up and started screaming again. They took her to the hospital, but they haven't figured out what's wrong with her yet. She's just screaming gibberish, and not much else.

His mother puts down the phone with a sigh that night and when Bellamy turns around to go to his room, he runs into his sister.

Sarah has her hands on her hips and her eyes are full of tears. "What did you do?"

"I— what?" he asks, bewildered.

She shoves at him and although she's tiny compared to him, he stumbles because he's caught off guard, and his mind is still whirring from the memories he hasn't yet been able to process.

"You did something to Clarissa!" his sister screams at him. "Mommy, Benji did something to Clarissa!"

"I didn't do anything!" he protests when his mother looks between them, but that's a lie. He _did_ do something.

His mother sighs and rubs her temples. "Go to bed, you two."

"But—"

"Go. To. Bed!"

He does. So does Sarah, still sniffling. He lies awake all night, thinking of Clarke.

And the next day, they start building the Wall.

—

Bellamy doesn't pay much attention to the Wall being built because he's busy trying to deal with his new memories. It's a lot to handle, and some of it is just overwhelming. The next day he keeps to his room, staring out the window. His parents don't seem to notice, perhaps preoccupied themselves, and his sister is still mad at him.

But that night, he's confronted with the memory of a blonde woman with Clarissa's blue eyes dying in his arms and a wave of grief hits him, so intense and soul-shattering that the next thing he knows, he's just sobbing into his pillow, willing the pain to stop.

He barely hears the door open, his father whispering his name in concern. He can't answer, just banging his head against his pillows trying to get all this to stop, until his father grabs his hand— his left one.

That sets off another memory, of his own mangled left hand being sawed off, and the pain is so fresh in his mind that it sets him off into a new burst of tears.

"What's wrong, Benji?" his father soothes, gathering him up in his arms like a small child. Bellamy buries his face into his father's neck and lets him rock him back and forth.

"I'm seeing things," he manages to get out. "I'm remembering things. It's too much. It's too much," he repeats over and over until he dissolves back into tears. Even without looking up, he can tell his mom in the doorway and his father are exchanging worried glances.

"Think it has something to do with that girl Clarissa?" he hears his father murmur as he pats a comforting hand on Bellamy's back.

"It better not be," his mother replies. "Apparently she hasn't gotten any better."

His father gently pries Bellamy's fists away from his own hair. He hadn't even realized he was tugging on it. "Take him to a doctor. First thing in the morning."

Bellamy freezes up. He hates doctors. And somehow— somehow he knows what's happening to him is far beyond them, anyway.

It takes all his strength to withhold the tears that are still spilling from his eyes and blurt, "No. No doctors." He leans away from his father, and both his parents look at him with concern.

"We're just trying to help, Benji," his father says.

Bellamy wipes his face with one hand, dropping his gaze to the floor. "I'm fine. It was a really bad dream."

They see his sudden calmness and seem to buy it. His father stays with him until Bellamy mimics sleep well enough that he leaves, turning off the light and closing the door softly behind him. But Bellamy lies awake in the dark on his side, eyes wide as he stares out the window at the beginnings of the construction of the wall on the next street over.

He hardly sleeps at all that night.

—

It's a long time before he's able to sleep well again. But eventually, he finds a way to shove back the memories so he doesn't have to deal with the tidal wave of emotions that come with them. He knows snippets of his past lifetimes, but most of all he knows Clarke, and he worries about her. A lot.

A month later, he goes for his first day of school. His friends greet him in the hallway, laugh about things that don't matter. He struggles to keep up the facade of being a nine year old boy.

That afternoon, on their way home, he turns to his sister. "Did you see Clar— Clarissa today?" he asks her, as casually as he can.

Sarah blinks at him. "Clarissa?" She sounds confused for a second and then her expression clears. "Oh, _Clarissa_. Mommy says she's not going to come to school anymore."

He gapes. "Why?" He thought he'd at _least_ get to see her in school. But his sister shrugs, already back to singing some nonsense tune and forgetting all about her former friend. Bellamy wishes he could do the same.

His mother, driving the car, answers for him. "Clarissa's not well enough for school yet, honey. They went away to take her someplace to get better."

"To get better?" he repeats, and a wave of panic shudders through his thin frame. Clarke. He has to protect Clarke. But he can't do that if he doesn't know what is happening to her. "Where? Where is she now?"

There's an urgency to his tone, one that he immediately chastises himself for; he's trying to fly under the radar. But luckily his mother doesn't notice; she's too busy staring out the window with a troubled expression on her face as they drive past the construction of the Wall.

It gives him a chance to compose himself, so that he sounds only mildly curious when he asks again, "Mom? Where's Clarissa?"

His mother's hands tighten on the wheel. "On the west side of the wall," she murmurs, so low Bellamy hardly hears. "Even after she gets well, you and Sarah probably won't see her anymore."

And this is the first time that Bellamy's eyes swing to the construction of the Wall with more than just detached interest. Because now, suddenly, it's an obstacle to Clarke. Dimly he remembers going over to her apartment with his family a handful of times. It is indeed a few streets west, past the wall. "We won't see her anymore?" he repeats, trying not to betray his slowly brewing panic. "They're going to cut the city in two?"

Her silence says everything.

He swallows. "They can't do that, can they?"

"Benji," his mother sighs as they turn onto their street. "They already did."

—

Growing up, it becomes evident that the Wall isn't coming down any time soon.

It also becomes evident that shoving down his memories is the best course of action.

He feels older than all his friends going back to school that year. He's quiet in class, and a few weeks in the teacher pulls him aside to ask if something's wrong at home.

"You've just been looking very sad," his teacher says, a concerned look on her kind features. "Don't think I haven't noticed how you don't talk much to anyone. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay."

"I'm fine," Bellamy says automatically. He doesn't think he sounds very convincing.

She doesn't seem to think so either because she squeezes his shoulder. "You can always tell me, you know. Is everything alright with your family?"

Not really, he thinks to himself. Well, technically yes; his father still has a job, and his mother is doing fine despite her worrying cough, and his sister is happy as a daisy. But unbeknownst to them all, there's another person in Bellamy's family, and he has _no_ idea if she's alright or not.

Through more eavesdropping, he's learned that there have been talks of admitting young Clarke to a mental institution over on the west side; apparently she keeps doing and saying very _strange_ things. And apparently, talking to someone no one can see; Clarke's mother, a superstitious type, is saying her daughter might be possessed.

Bellamy, meanwhile draws his own conclusions. He really wishes young Clarke had the capacity to shut up about their previous lives. He's actually kind of surprised she hasn't implicated him in her mess yet. He wishes she would; maybe they'd want to question him and he'd have a reason to see her. But she's probably not coherent enough in her rambling for them to figure out who she's going on about, anyway. So the devil it is.

He finds that kind of funny, too. Maybe they're not too far off.

He tries to smile at his teacher; the action stretches the corners of his mouth painfully. "Thank you. But everything's fine."

And from that point on, everything is. Because he acts like it is. And whenever he can pick up a scrap of information of what's going on in Clarke's life, he eats it up. Those become fewer and farther between as time goes on, as his family eventually stops having any sort of communication with the people on the other side of the Wall. The last he hears about her is in passing, his mother wondering aloud if "that Clarissa girl" is still in the mental hospital. The idea of Clarke locked away saddens him, but at least she's alive, out there, somewhere. And she's smart; he knows when she's old enough she'll learn to keep her mouth shut and they'll let her out. She'll have a chance at life. He has to believe that.

And in the meantime, he decides he can wait for Clarke, wherever she is, and try to live some semblance of a life himself. After all, he'll see her again someday.

Even if it's not in this lifetime.

—

But it's still hard to act like he's a normal person sometimes.

Like the day when he's thirteen and he lets himself into the apartment after school after walking home with a girl he knows from class like he always does, and his father is sitting very seriously in the living room and says, "We need to have a talk."

This sets Bellamy on high alert right away. There's something very stern about his father's eyes and for a split second he's seized with the fear that his father has found the West Berlin phone book under his bed; the one he had scavenged out of a trash bin and scoured through hoping to find some number he could call for Clarke's family.

His father continues slowly, and a bit awkwardly now, "That girl you walk home with. She seems to like you."

Oh.

"Well, so does her brother," he can't help but remark, because it's true; maybe a real thirteen year old wouldn't be able to recognize the signs of romantic interest, but _he_ can because well, he's seen them before.

His father frowns. "Whatever the case may be," he says, patting the couch cushion next to him. "We need to talk about it. You're growing up now, and there are things you need to know."

Now Bellamy's fear is replaced with an entirely different sort of panic, and he feels a blush rising to his cheeks. This is a _sex talk_ he's about to receive. He hardly hears his father's next words because suddenly other memories are coursing through him.

He has not spent a lot of time dwelling on the lifetime where he was a prostitute, mostly because he really, really didn't want to. And he does not want to be triggered into vividly reliving those memories now because his hapless father is trying to be helpful.

So externally, Bellamy, who has not moved an inch towards the couch, rubs the back of his curly haired head with his hand. "Can we do this later?" As he talks, he's already moving backwards, retreating to the front door.

His father stands. "This is important, Benji— You don't want to go getting a girl pregnant, now—"

Bellamy gulps because a memory of a time when he most _definitely_ got his girl pregnant has flashed through his head. He squashes it down. "I'm going now, I've got somewhere to be," he shouts over his father's rambling about the birds and the bees, and then he flees the scene, running downstairs and onto the street to cool off.

Needless to say, it's awkward at dinner that night. His mother forces the issue and the talk happens anyway, but at least he's somewhat mentally prepared for it by then.

—

When he's in his late-teens, his mom gets sick. It turns out that cough she's had for years is something more. And it's chronic. Her medication is expensive, even more so since they live in East Berlin. His father struggles with making enough money to keep them all afloat. Sarah is more worried than a kid should be. So he makes a decision.

Bellamy decides to drop his plans for university education and get a job out of high school so he can help pay for his mom's meds. He waves away his parents' protests.

"I'll go later," he promises his mom. "When you get better."

She clutches his hands weakly and gives him a brittle smile. They both know there is a good chance she won't get better. "You're a good boy, Benji."

Not really. After centuries spent alone, he has been savouring the feeling of living with a whole family for the past several years. And he doesn't want to let go of it. So he just squeezes his mother's hands, lets go, and pulls on his uniform for his first day of work at the Knorr-Bremse brake factory.

—

Ten years after he kissed Clarke on that balcony, he finally sees her again.

When the Four Power Agreement of Berlin is made earlier in the month, allowing residents to cross to and from East Berlin with a permit, he had immediately applied for one. He'd been declined, but that was to be expected. Most Easterners who got a permit were those whose work made crossing over a necessity. He'd resigned himself to trying again later, maybe when he had more of a clue where to start with finding her.

So it comes as a surprise that morning when, as he's standing at his station in the factory, grubby and soot-stained from head to toe as he diligently sorts metal parts, a voice at his shoulder says, "Hey, you."

He starts a little, because he was so concentrated on his work he hadn't heard anyone come up to him. But then his mind connects the voice to the person, and when he turns his head, Clarke is standing in front of him, smiling big and bright and looking utterly out of place in this gloomy factory.

"Clarke?" he croaks. She beams again and stands up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Nice to see you too."

He stares at her, stares and stares. Her blonde hair is in a french braid, her cheeks are full and rosy, and she looks pristine and healthy, he's relieved to note. She's wearing a pale pink top and a dark plaid skirt. He feels drab and grubby standing next to her. She must be about fifteen, about the same age as she was when he first met her in their first life, but she looks a little older than she is. And she acts a little younger than she is, grabbing his gloved hands excitedly and eyes sparkling in joy, waiting for his response.

There are so many things to say and questions to ask to her after ten years apart that he somehow settles on the most stupid one. "How the hell did you get in here?" Workers have a card that they have to show at the door of the factory.

He can tell from the way she rapidly blinks that this question was definitely not what she was expecting, but admirably, she takes it in stride. She leans in, way into his personal space and whispers like a secret, "With my feminine wiles."

Whatever shock he was under breaks, and he finds his lips tugging up into a smile. "I'm not even sure why I asked." Then Bellamy envelops her in a hug.

Clarke leaps into the embrace immediately, sighing into his shoulder. He presses his nose against her hair and marvels in the smell of her, real and here and solid and in his arms after such a long time apart.

A voice cuts through his haze of bliss. "Hey, Benji, who's this? You never introduced us."

Clarke pulls her head away from his shoulder and turns to the dark-haired speaker. It's Igor, a Russian worker at the factory and one of Bellamy's friends. He's wearing a shit-eating grin like he already thinks he knows, with his hands on his hips and blue eyes sparkling with mischief. Some of the other workers around them pause in their work too, having given up on subtle eavesdropping as they await a real answer.

But Bellamy hesitates, looking at Clarke. He has no idea what he's supposed to say, or what she expects him to. He can't exactly say his wife from nearly a thousand years ago. So, his friend? His sister's friend? His acquaintance? His—

"Girlfriend," Clarke announces, stepping closer into his space and wrapping her arms around his middle. "I'm his girlfriend."

Bellamy blinks, stunned, while wolf-whistles rise up from his co-workers.

"Damn, Benji!" Igor yells in glee. "You never date and now we know why. Where you been hiding her?" His eyes rove up and down Clarke's form in appreciation, but Bellamy certainly doesn't appreciate it.

"Igor," Bellamy says pleasantly in lieu of answering, "If you're going to check out my girlfriend, you could at least try and be subtle." The word 'girlfriend' on his tongue sends a thrill through him. Maybe it has a similar effect on Clarke, because she stretches up on her tiptoes, turns his jaw towards her, and makes their second kiss in this life a good, dirty, public one.

If his friends were wolf-whistling before, they're practically howling now, he notes as the two of them part. Looking into Clarke's blue eyes, his heart beating fast against her chest, he makes a reckless decision.

He glances at the clock on the wall. It's not even lunchtime. "I'm leaving early." He glances at Igor, who's still wearing his smug grin. "Can I call in that favour today?" A while back Bellamy had worked a shift for Igor while he got tied up in family stuff, and Igor had promised to do the same for him whenever he needed. Back then, Bellamy had never thought he'd need to ask. He needed to work as many shifts as he could get.

Clarke in his arms is kind of shifting his priorities at the moment, though.

"You got it. I'll get your minimum done," Igor says, slapping him on the back. "You lucky bastard."

"Minimum?" Clarke repeats, looking between them. "Bellamy, if you need to work, I understand. I was actually going to wait until later to find you." She chews her lip. "But I couldn't wait."

"It's okay," he says dismissively. The foreman will have his hide for having such a slow day, but he can't find it in himself to care. "Let's go." He pulls off his gloves, throws them down on the workbench and takes her hand, tugging on it.

She lets him tug her along, out of the factory's side door to where the white Trabant he drives is parked.

"Is this your car?" Clarke asks as he unlocks the door and holds it open for her. He feels his smile grow at her impressed tone of voice. Clearly West Berliners don't have Trabants; if they did, she wouldn't look so impressed. Trabants are truly the crappiest brand of car to ever exist, but they're fairly popular in East Germany.

"Family car," he explains, and goes around to his side to get in. It's the family vehicle, but his dad works close to home so he usually walks, while Bellamy has to drive all the way to Friedrichshain district to get to work. He puts the key in the ignition, and the vehicle roars obnoxiously to life.

He pulls off from the side of the street and starts driving, a place already in mind. "How did you find me?" He asks her. "I've been looking for you my whole life, ever since that day, but I couldn't find you."

"I have more resources," Clarke says, settling into her seat. "I'm an intern for a journalist. I can look up people pretty easily. As soon as I heard about the day passes into East Berlin, I applied for one. It took a while, though."

"Intern for a journalist?" he repeats, casting her a sidelong glance. She shrugs. "I heard that they… sent you away, after what happened." She's silent. "To the mental hospital."

She glances out the window, facing away from him. "They did." Her tone is unreadable. "I hardly even remember those first two years. It was just a haze of pain and confusion."

He swallows back a lump in his throat. "All those memories…"

"It was too much," she finishes. "After they realized I wasn't getting better, they put me away for a while and pumped me with sedatives all day to keep me normal. It took me years to grow into it all, and learn to shut up about things that made me sound crazy. And after I started doing that, they discharged me after a few months. Clean bill of health, and I got to go back and live with my family and everyone who thought I belonged in the nuthouse." There's a slight bitter edge to her voice, and he realizes that even bringing this up might be painful to her.

"We don't have to talk about it," he says gently, even though he yearns to know about those years of her life without him. "What matters is you're here now."

She turns her face back to him, a small smile now on her lips, and puts her hand on his, on the wheel. "Yeah. So, what about you?"

He turns onto the next street. "Yes, I'm here too, in case you hadn't noticed."

She hits his shoulder. "What's going on in your life? I know you work in a factory. What else? Do you go to school? Do you have anyone in your life?" Her words are light, but he casts her a wary glance.

"No." A beat, and he adds, "I haven't really even been with anyone in this life."

"Me neither," she replies instantly, and he feels a little lighter. "But what about the rest?"

He tells her how his mom is sick, so he can't go to school, and fills her in on the other major details of his life. He can feel Clarke studying him as he pulls the Trabant into a parking space near the bakery he's bringing her to.

"You're all dirty," she notes, running her finger down the line of his forearm, where his uniform sleeve has been rolled up. The pad of her finger comes away a little smudged with metal dust.

He turns to her, about to be apologetic, but she's settled in her seat with a dark gaze, biting her lip and he has to tear his gaze away before he does something stupid.

He clears his throat, clenching the wheel with tighter fingers. "I could go home and wash up first," he offers, voice a little guttural.

"Don't you dare," Clarke practically purrs, and opens her car door. "Where are we?"

He shakes it off and follows her out. "The Pastry Chef," he reports, holding the door open for her. "My sister and I love this place."

"Sarah," Clarke recalls, and they walk into the brightly lit establishment, with its pale pink tiled floors and lazily swinging fan on the ceiling. "How is she?"

There's a line, so they go to the back and Bellamy wraps his arm around her from behind, resting his head against her hair. She leans back into him and they sway slightly on the spot. An older woman walks by them and smiles indulgently. Bellamy imagines how they must look; just another happy couple. The thought sends his heart into overdrive.

"Great," he replies to Clarke in reference to her question. Honestly he doesn't want to talk about his sister right now, though, so he nudges her in the side. "So, you're my girlfriend, huh?"

He can see her cheeks reddening slightly at his teasing tone. She tosses her hair back, into his face, making him sputter. "Yes," she says. "So treat me like it."

One of his hands slides down to her hip. "I'll treat you like it, all right."

"You better." The line moves up a little and she asks, "What are we getting?"

"Whatever you want." He gestures to the glass display, where truly drool-inducing platters of strudels, marzipan, krepels and other pastries sit.

He ends up getting a strudel, and she ends up getting stollen fruitcake ("Give me extra sugar. More," she instructs, and he smiles behind his hand).

When he goes to pay, she protests, "I have money, you know." She fishes it out of her pocket. "The exchange prices were crazy, but—"

"It's on me," he says, handing his money over to the cashier.

"Bellamy, you shouldn't spend money on me. Not with what's going on in your life right now."

He shrugs as they head outside to find a seat at one of the tables outside. "Give it a few years, and the wall will come down and I can go find one of my stashes." For now, he's stuck in the confines of Eastern Germany, but as soon as he can he's making plans to go find some of the treasure he's hidden around the world, and end his family's money troubles once and for all.

She gasps, straightening as they sit down across from each other. "I almost forgot!"

He bites into his strudel. Delicious, as always. "I didn't." Because he's a cheapskate.

"So much for that bet," she muses, "since we died at the same time. Where'd you hide it, anyway? Did it get discovered?"

He tells her about the treasure, and where he's stashed it, and the fact that the research he's done thus far has indicated that much of his loot from his pirate days hasn't been discovered yet. She nods along, enraptured, and he's equally enraptured by the way the pink strap of her top slips over her shoulder. His voice dies away midway through his story, but she doesn't seem to mind. She picks up her fruitcake and takes a bite, and nearly moans.

"This is so good," she marvels. He internally smiles at the way she closes her eyes in bliss. There's a bit of frosted sugar on her nose; it's adorable.

He swipes it away with his thumb. "Tell me something I don't know."

She's silent a moment, then looks down at her pastry and does just that. "I didn't get married after I left Cebu Island, you know. Well, not really."

That shocks him. He'd assumed she had; she hadn't even disputed it, but now that he thinks back to those conversations, she never exactly confirmed it either.

She goes on, sounding almost nervous. "I met a girl at my debut. Her name was Emilia. I kind of fell in love with her."

He's quiet a moment before he asks, "Did it work out?"

She beams. "You'd never guess. The man my parents wanted me to marry was in love with Emilia's fiance. So we made an arrangement."

He laughs in disbelief. "Don't tell me you all got married to satisfy your parents."

"It was a win-win situation." Her smile is smug, and she goes on to tell him stories of her life with Emilia, and he feels his heart melting with every word. Despite a distant jealousy at the description of her long life with someone else, she positively glows telling the story and well, at least _one_ of them should get some happiness now and then.

"The four of us adopted a few children, too," she tells him on the drive back to his home. It's afternoon; he supposes it would've made more sense to take her out for more substantial food, but she doesn't seem to be bothered by having dessert for lunch. "It was my idea," she adds. "To adopt some kids, I mean."

He shoots her a look, then. Her expression is very warm, and she stretches out a hand to stroke his jaw gently.

"I told you I never forgot about you," she says gently. "Or what you did for us."

Bellamy knows she's referring to Arwin and the others. He swallows and nods.

—

She looks around in wonder as they climb the stairs of his apartment building. Mrs. Schmidt, the old woman living next door, is walking down the hall and passes them.

"Benji," she says in surprise and gives him a warm smile. She's always been something of a grandmother to the kids growing up in this building. She pauses to look Clarke up and down. "But who's this young lady?"

"My girlfriend," he tells her, delighting in it, and then pulls Clarke along to their door. Mrs. Schmidt mutters something that sounds like "kids" in a fond tone and continues hobbling on her way.

"This apartment looks exactly how I remember it," Clarke declares when they walk in, turning around in his living room. She crosses to the wall to examine an old family photo, pointing excitedly. "This! Bellamy, I remember this playground. We played on it all the time." She wheels around, eyes sparkling. "If I'm remembering right, your mom always made you babysit us."

"It was boring as hell," he confirms.

She smiles, and her eye catches on something else. "And that's the balcony— the one where we were playing…" Her voice dies away as she gets caught up in memories, and she crosses over to the balcony door, pushing it open. A gentle breeze falls in, and she steps out. He admires her from inside.

Clarke leans against the railing, giving him a great view of her ass in that skirt. He might be imagining it, but she's sticking it out a little.

"We kissed right here," she says, tilting her head up to the sky. "Right here, on this balcony, I married you." She tosses him a sultry look over her shoulder, and he _knows_ he's not imagining that.

So when she turns back to survey the street below, he stalks forward the few steps he needs to crowd her in, pins her right up against the railing with his hips. She gives easily, arching her back and pushing against his groin.

Already riled up, he grips her hips easily and nudges her head to the side with his so he can press his lips to her cheek. There's still a spot of sugar from her stollen, and he licks it up, making her gasp. "You want some more sugar, Clarke?" he whispers, rolling his hips right back against her.

"Took you a while to get the hint, didn't it," she breathes, tilting her head even more so he can start trailing kisses down her jaw to her neck. One of his hands pulls at her shirt to slide under it, sweeping over the skin of her stomach and higher. She reaches a hand back to hold his bicep in an iron grip, sighing as he continues to grind against her ass, and they spend a few moments just like that.

Then she pushes him away and he takes the hint, stepping backwards until he's back through the door, into his apartment. Clarke turns around, and he can see her cheeks are flushed and eyes cutting into his as she follows him.

They meet again in the middle of the living room in a fierce kiss. She slants her mouth against his, hands everywhere, not giving him a chance to think, only to feel, to respond. He slots his knee in between her legs and instead of simply widening her stance she hooks her leg over his hip. He hitches it higher and backs her into the wall. They make out hungrily, sloppily, while still grinding against each other. The warm friction of her through layers of fabric is driving him crazy, and maybe he's a little rough, but she's rough right back, nails raking down his back, fingers tugging on his hair, the heel of her foot digging into his ass.

She tugs at his uniform. He takes that as a hint to take it off, but she shakes her head.

"Keep it on," she says, voice huskier than usual as she fingers the collar, still covered in metal dust. "I want to fuck you in this."

His eyes nearly roll back in his head at the deliciously dirty prospect. To regain control, he stops moving against her, pausing, breathing hard as he leans his forehead against her. "You gotta stop saying things like that," he manages, voice ragged.

She nods wisely. "You're right. Less talking, more doing." She grinds against him hard one more time before she pushes him a step back and drops to her knees.

His mouth goes dry at the sight of her. "Clarke, you shouldn't—"

She puts an innocent finger to her lips in the universal shh gesture, and with the other hand palms him through his pants, causing a gasp to escape his throat. She smiles slyly, now scratching her nails down his inner thigh. "I may technically be a virgin in this life, but I still remember how you like me to suck you off."

There's no way he can respond to that except for a strangled sound, and when she proves her point for the next two minutes, all he can do is brace his hands against the wall and let his head fall forward, watching her unravel him in the way only Clarke knows how. He talks her through it too. Mostly filthy things about how good she looks, what he wants to do to her, because just like how she remembers how to do him in, he knows just how to get her going, too.

The wall is really all that holds him up afterwards, while Clarke tucks him almost demurely back into his pants and straightens up to full stature with a Cheshire cat smile, hair tousled around her face from his hand.

"Was that good?" she asks him. Her lips are swollen and red.

In lieu of answering, he grabs her and practically throws her on the couch. She bounces a little, perhaps a little surprised as he pulls her legs right over the sidearm.

"You know damn well how good that was," he growls at her, squeezing her thighs, and she mewls. She props herself up on the couch cushions as he works at the buttons of her pants with the intention of returning the favour tenfold.

Bellamy doesn't know how he hears the approach of footsteps in the hallway outside while she's giving him those hooded _come hither_ eyes, but he's forever thankful that he does, because he manages to pull Clarke to sitting position, smooth down her hair, and back up a few steps to a respectable distance before the door opens and his mother walks in with his sister.

A long string of swear words runs through his head in that moment, but he stays completely silent as Sarah and his mom takes in the scene in front of them. Clarke looks bewildered at the turn of events but admirably goes with it.

"Sarah!" she says with a beaming smile. "It's been such a long time."

He's almost offended she sounds so normal ten seconds after he was breathing on the junction of her thighs, but then she spreads her arms out and he notices her hands are trembling slightly and a little bit of smugness zings through him.

Besides, he realizes the big welcome is supposed to be more of a distraction anyway, because Sarah's suspicious gaze melts into surprised joy the moment she recognizes her old friend, and the same happens to his mother.

"Oh, my god! Clarissa!" Sarah exclaims, dropping her grocery bags to embrace her. Bellamy watches with a small smile as they catch up, and Clarke explains how she'd run into Bellamy on her way to their apartment.

"Shouldn't you be at work?" his mother asks him sternly. Clarke stops speaking, looking panicked. Bellamy smoothly covers her.

"I forgot my tool bag and had to come back for it. It's in the car now," he lies, shoving his hands in his uniform pockets.

His mother seems to accept it, coughing into her hand. The action wracks her shoulders; Clarke watches with concern.

"Go back to work, Benji," His sister says. "Thanks for taking care of Clarissa, but we'll take it from here."

Somehow he doubts that.

Unfortunately, his lie means that he has to leave now back for work for a few more hours, so he heads for the door. Clarke follows him while Sarah and his mother unload their groceries.

"I'll stay here until you get back in the evening," she whispers. "But I only have a one-day permit so I have to go after."

"That's okay," he says automatically, but inside he's jarred by the realization that this isn't a _real_ reunion for them— the Wall still separates them. Who even knows when she might get another permit to cross? To distract them both from those troubling thoughts, he slides his hand down to her ass and squeezes momentarily. "Rain check on the other thing?"

Her eyelids lower. "Definitely." And then his mom turns back to them and he backs out, headed for the factory.

Clarke is true to her word, laughing and eating dinner with the rest of his family when he gets back from work. She looks up when he enters, face shining with joy. He smiles back, despite what had happened when he had gotten back to work.

Lucky him, the notorious asshole of a foreman visited their section in the factory today while he was gone with Clarke. His absence couldn't be covered up, Igor had apologetically explained, and his pay was docked. It's all his own fault, really. He'd waved away Igor's offers to split his earnings from the day. He'd just work more hours next week, pick up more shifts.

He sits down and eats dinner with his family and Clarke, and he feels whole for the first time in a long time. Clarke's apparently told them that she's crossed over as part of errands for her internship.

After dinner he drives Clarke back to the border, where the police, or the Vopo as they're called in these parts, watch with a stern eye.

"I'll come back," Clarke promises. "As soon as I can."

He nods. "Until then." She makes to get out of the car, but he catches her wrist. "Clarke."

She turns back.

He takes a deep breath, brushes his thumb over her pulse point. Today has been happy— one of the happiest days of his life. _Too_ happy. "Don't die, alright?" he says lightly.

She blinks. And then she smiles, a small one; as always, she understands. "I won't if you don't."

"Deal," he replies. Clarke squeezes his hand and then she's gone.

—

Clarke's given Sarah her phone number, and Bellamy can't help but phone her the very next evening.

He's lived centuries on his own patiently, but it feels like years drag on while the operator connects him to West Berlin, and when someone picks up, it's a young female voice. But it's not Clarke.

"Is Clarissa there?" he asks tentatively.

"Who's speaking?"

He pauses. "A friend."

The phone gets moved away from the girl's face, and he hears her muffled voice yell, "Clarissa! There's a _boy_ on the phone for you!" A moment later, the same voice asks gleefully, "Is he your boyfriend?"

Instead of answering, Clarke presumably grabs the phone because the next thing he hears is her voice. "Sorry. That was my sister. Charlotte."

"I didn't know you had a sister."

"Three of them," Clarke complains. "Triplets, two years younger than me. Thirteen year olds can be so irritating."

He feels a smile pull at his lips. "You're fifteen."

"I'm nearly a thousand," she counters.

"Right."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear your tone just now, and ask you how your day was."

He does, sugarcoating a little, and then it's her turn. If he knows her at all, she's probably sugarcoating too. They chat over the phone for a few minutes, but Bellamy's painfully aware of money going down the drain every sixty seconds, and Clarke seems to realize that too.

"I'm working on getting another permit," she tells him, before hanging up. "Don't die."

"I won't if you don't," he echoes her, and he can hear the soft smile in her voice as she replies.

"Deal."

—

It's a few months later when she can come again, and she calls excitedly beforehand. He makes sure he gets the day off, and the day before he's so enthusiastic clocking out that Igor asks if his girlfriend is back in town. They still assume she's from somewhere in East Germany, and he doesn't correct them.

"Hey," Clarke says brightly when he meets her, right out the gates. She hefts her purse over one shoulder. "I brought condoms."

Bellamy chokes on his own spit.

"Great invention," she comments, linking her arm with his and leading him down the street. "Now, let's go see a movie."

Despite Clarke's enthusiasm (and if he's being honest, his too) they don't have sex the first few times she visits. His apartment is nearly always crowded with family. But he doesn't mind too much. Just being able to stroll down the street hand-in-hand with her on a semi-regular basis makes him the happiest man alive.

Every few months, he gets a call from her telling him that she'll be over soon. Sometimes the wait between is less, sometimes more.

They don't do anything grand. It's mostly spontaneous little things. Sometimes they go on walks down familiar streets, sometimes he drives her into the countryside, sometimes they go do something with Sarah and her friends, sometimes they just sit on the couch at his home, his head in her lap and her fingers in his hair, and talk for hours. Catching up on their lives together. Although they're never together on birthdays, they make sure to treat each other on the next closest day they're together. Bellamy is a little flustered when Clarke presents him with a bouquet of dark red carnations when he turns twenty-one.

"How'd you know I like flowers?"

"Because you like pretty things."

He kisses her. "Damn right."

The more time they spend, the more he realizes how different life on the West side is. She's shocked when she learns he knows practically nothing about popular culture or music and vows to show him some of it the next time she comes.

But the Vopo force her to leave all her Western paraphernalia at the border, so she can't.

His family eventually figures out what's going on. But they don't seem to mind the relationship between the two of them. Although his sister threatens to kick him in not-fun places if he ever hurts Clarke.

One day Clarke tells him that her sisters are dying to know what he looks like.

"My parents think I run errands for my job over here, but my sisters know about you," she explains. "Thanks to Charlotte's big mouth. They promised to keep it secret if I got them a picture of you." She holds up her camera.

He smiles indulgently for her while she clicks the picture. The photo prints out a second later— overexposing his skin because of the sun, but otherwise it's a nice photo.

"Good?" he asks.

She beams, her eyes flicking up from the photo to the real thing. "Perfect."

The next time she comes, she brings her three sisters.

He pauses at the sight, because he's used to waiting by the Trabant for just Clarke's blonde haired head to appear at the gate, but this time it's four. They approach him and he straightens, pushing off his car. The triplets walk a little behind Clarke, staring at him and giggling behind their hands.

When Clarke reaches him, he arches an eyebrow at her and turns a wide grin at the girls he assumes are her sisters. "Ladies," he greets them.

Clarke points at them in turn. "These are my sisters, Charlotte, Chelsea, and Cheryl. This is Benji," she says to them, grabbing Bellamy's hand.

Bellamy recovers from his initial shock and opens the passenger door for them, turning up the charm. "I've never seen so much beautiful in one place," he says. "Let me take you all out for icecream."

They giggle and blush. Clarke rolls her eyes as they pile into the Trabant's back seats. "I showed them the picture and they begged to see you," she whispers to him apologetically. He shrugs.

"I've always wanted to meet them." He just never thought it would happen before the Wall came down.

Her sisters are a riot, as it turns out. He buys them all triple scoop icecreams and tries his best to follow their conversation, but they talk so _fast_ and even over each other in vying for his attention that it's difficult at times. They're adorable.

"I'll come alone next time," Clarke tells him at the end of that day. They're standing near the Wall patrol, holding hands. He's very aware of her sisters watching from a few meters' distance.

"I don't mind them," he replies. "I think they're great."

"Oh, I know you do. Since you were flirting with them the whole time."

His mouth falls open in indignation. "I wasn't flirting, I was trying to be nice—" He stops when he realizes she's laughing, and she nudges his nose with hers.

"Don't die," she says on the end of a giggle, and he kisses her hard and fast, much to the delight of the triplets.

He delivers the standard response. It's become automatic, their little joke. "I won't if you don't."

"Deal."

—

The year Clarke turns eighteen, he's left without her for so long that he begins to worry.

He's been applying to cross over to the West himself, but hasn't been accepted yet.

"I've applied five times in the past two months," she tells him when he calls her again. "I'm trying, alright?" She sounds tired, a little frustrated too, and he automatically softens his voice.

"I know you are."

"Stupid wall," she mutters.

Privately, he wonders if that stupid wall will ever come down. "I haven't seen you for over half a year. You graduated high school, right? How's everything?"

"I'm fine. Got a real job with that journalist."

She sounds a little off. He prods, "What else?"

She's quiet for a long moment. And when she speaks again her voice is low and desperate. "Bellamy, be straight with me. Are you with anyone else?"

Well, that isn't what he expected. He almost feels a little insulted. "Clarke… how could you even think that?" She's silent again. "Why would you think that? What did I do?"

"I got a package in the mail," she whispers, and he almost has to strain to hear. "No return address. No note. Just photos of you, near your apartment building, leaning over a fence to talk to some girl. Dark hair, long and curly." She talks as if she's staring at the photos right now. "They look like they were taken from a balcony or something."

His blood slowly turns to ice at the words. He knows what girl she's talking about— that's the one he grew up with, across the street, and used to walk home from school with. He still talks to her now and then, when they cross paths in the neighbourhood. But— who's taking pictures of them? Not to mention sending them to Clarke.

When he doesn't answer, she mutters, "I was hoping maybe they were doctored, but judging by your silence…"

"No," he says quickly. "I know her. She lives in the neighbourhood. I'm not interested in her."

Her voice sounds a little frosty. "You sure? She's practically up against your chest in these."

He winces. That neighbour of his hasn't taken the hint in the ten years he's known her. "It's nothing, trust me."

"It doesn't look like nothing."

" _Clarke_ ," Bellamy repeats, unable to believe they're actually having this conversation, "I promise, you're the only one."

Silence again. Maybe she's mulling it over.

"Clarke, I'm sorry if I've made you think you're not." His voice breaks a little at the end at the thought that maybe he hasn't been showing her enough love; that he's been neglecting her, making her doubt herself.

She picks up on it, he thinks, because she immediately responds, now sounding less suspicious and more sad. "No, Bellamy, _I'm_ sorry. I should've— I should've known it was just some creepy stalker thing." He hears the _swish_ of her throwing the photo to the side. "It happens to journalists sometimes, from what I've heard. But I haven't been feeling all that right lately."

Her confession makes him even more concerned than he was hearing about the _creepy stalker thing_. Having been about to suggest she pursue another profession, he asks instead, "Why?"

An even longer pause follows that question. He waits patiently; the money he's spending on this phone call is worth every cent. When she speaks, he's startled to hear that she's close to tears. "I think I'm losing my mind, Bellamy."

He clutches the phone harder, especially when he hears a muffled sob on her end. She must be home alone to be doing this, and he wishes more than at any other point in their separated life that he could be right next to her, right now. Comforting her.

"Weird things keep happening lately," she sniffles into the phone. "Small things that seem like nothing. Like my desk chair at work got replaced with a wooden one but no one else's was. Last night I came home and your photo wasn't on my dresser anymore, it was just _gone_ , and my sisters swore they didn't take it. My stash of tea— which was in the cupboard— got switched out with another brand. And on top of it all, my dad lost his job. I don't know what's happening to me."

Bellamy takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, his grip on the phone now almost painful to his joints. "I'm sorry about your dad. But maybe you did those other things yourself?"

"But I don't remember!" She sounds panicked. "That's just the _small_ things, Bellamy. It's gotten worse. And I don't remember doing any of it. I feel like someone's watching me or— something. One of my best friends stopped talking to me last month without telling me the reason. My life is falling apart and I don't understand _why_."

"You need to talk to someone," Bellamy says urgently. "Have you told your family this?"

"I can't!" She's breathing too fast. "They'll think I'm going crazy all over again!"

"Calm down," he tells her, trying to be soothing. "Take deep breaths—"

"What if they're right and I _am_ going crazy?" she says, fast. "Maybe they should put me back in the nuthouse, clearly I'm a nut _case_ —"

"Don't call yourself that," he says sharply. "Clarke. We're going to figure this out. You're just stressed out." He pauses. "And if you have a stalker, they might be connected to this. You've got to go to the police."

Silence again.

"Clarke?"

There's a dial tone. He pulls the phone from his ear, staring at it, and automatically dials again.

It doesn't work. He gets the warning tone that indicates an error in the number he dialled instead of the operator.

He keeps re-dialling until his sister comes into the room. "I need to call Martha," Sarah says, referring to one of her friends. "Are you done with the phone?"

He backs away from it like it's a snake ready to strike, and swallows. Because something's not right here and he can't figure out what. "Yeah."

Sarah watches him go with puzzlement but says nothing.

—

A month into his radio silence with Clarke, he finds out exactly what is going on.

It starts at work one day.

The foreman is yelling at him for not having finished his quota for the day. He bows his head and takes it; he's been distracted as of late and hasn't been working efficiently.

When the foreman leaves, satisfied with docking Bellamy's pay once again, Igor creeps up to him. "You okay, man?" he whispers. "You've been down lately."

Bellamy offers him a single glance as he drops his tools and strips off his gloves. "Fine."

"Wanna go get a drink tonight?"

That question is a test to see if Bellamy's truly fine and he knows it, but he says, "No," anyway, because he's too worried to care what Igor thinks.

He walks out into the dark alone, hands stuffed in his pockets. When he draws closer to his Trabant, he realizes there are three men standing by it as if they're waiting for him.

He halts in his tracks, taking in their dull grey-green uniforms visible in the dim lighting. They've got neutral, hard expressions on their faces. He's never seen them before in his life. His gaze shifts; next to his Trabant is a white van.

Bellamy instantly knows who they are; they've got the insignia on their chests for the Ministry for State Security. But they're better known as the Stasi— the secret service. The shadows in every East German's peripheral vision. The invisible force that runs their lives.

"Benjamin Black," one of them says calmly, while he stands rooted to the spot in terror. "Let's take a drive, shall we?"

—

Bellamy doesn't really have a choice but to go with them. They escort him to the back of their transport van and slam the doors shut. He sits and waits as the vehicle moves forward, wondering idly if he told his mother he loved her that morning.

When the van stops and the doors open, there's another man waiting, a gun resting casually in his hand. Bellamy follows its movements warily as the Stasi agent gestures for him to get out. When he does, he looks up to see a large, grey building looming in front of him with the Ministry's insignia on the doors. They've taken him to the main state security complex in Berlin.

He's lead inside, through a series of convolutedly twisted hallways, and then finally into a small room, no longer than a few strides and very narrow. It's got yellow, flowery wallpaper that somehow still feels sinister and a single wooden chair that faces a wall. When he approaches the chair, he realizes there's a barred window built into the wall. And someone is sitting behind it, face shrouded in darkness.

"Sit," a voice rings out, and he starts. The voice comes from a speaker in the cell, oddly garbled. Another agent walks through the door with him and the door he came through clangs shut. Hyperaware of the burly man behind him, slowly Bellamy sinks into the chair.

"What can I do for you?" he asks, going for bravado and crossing his arms. He's not exactly afraid for his _own_ life, anyway.

There's no greetings, which is expected. "What is the West German journalist Clarissa Graeber currently working on?"

He blinks once, twice. Clarke. They're talking about Clarke. He plays it cool.

"Why the hell would I know?"

The agent behind him is suddenly standing right next to him, and before Bellamy can blink he gets slapped so hard that he falls off his chair and to the floor.

His ears are ringing so he's barely able to hear the question, repeated: "What is Clarissa Graeber working on?"

He clambers to his hands and knees, but before he can collect his bearings the agent's hand wraps around his uniform collar and tugs him up. He struggles to his feet, sparing the agent a glare as he's pushed back in his chair.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The agent's palm strikes him across the other cheek, out of nowhere, and he again falls out of his seat. The man is _strong_.

Angered now, he spits on the floor as he's dragged back up again like a rag doll and deposited back in the chair. But the agent's got a gun in his other hand. Even if he could win it from him, Bellamy's not stupid enough to think that he and the agent are truly alone for a fair fight in this little cell.

He straightens and takes a deep breath. "Why would I even know this Clarissa Graeber? I'm a factory worker."

He braces himself for another hit, but instead the cool voice from the speaker says, "For the past three years, you have been having meetings with Miss Graeber," he's told. "Picking her up from the border."

He abandons pretense. He should've known— of course they watch the goings-on at the borders. "Well, she's an acquaintance."

A gloved hand suddenly presses a photograph to the bars, and he's startled at what he sees: It's a candid shot, of him and Clarke on the balcony of his apartment that very first day, taken from the apartments across. It looks even more sexual than it had felt at the time; Bellamy's pressed up right against her from behind, his hand disappearing under her shirt, and her head is thrown back and mouth open in mid-moan as she clutches the railing. Jesus.

He barely has a moment to process it, before he's slapped hard again, and, caught off guard, he falls to the floor, head knocking against the concrete. He's wrenched up quicker this time, with not even two seconds to absorb the hit, and is still seeing stars when he's thrown back in the chair.

The interrogator is unfazed watching the violence in front of him. The photo has disappeared from view, and a part of Bellamy misses it. He hasn't seen Clarke in so long. "Looks to be a little more than acquaintance," the voice notes.

"My girlfriend, I guess," Bellamy mutters after a pause. There's no point in lying about that.

The photo is again shoved into his view. "This photo was taken the first time she crossed to our side. Reports say that you both acted like you were already extremely… familiar. How is that possible if that was the first time you had ever seen each other?"

Bellamy's head starts spinning for a different reason. Even three years ago— he and Clarke were being watched? What the hell? Who had been spying on their lives? There are too many possibilities; are their Stasi informants living in his neighbourhood? Is his car bugged? His phone calls tapped?

The interrogator plunges on in the face of his internal panic, not waiting for an answer. "Miss Graeber has been writing some disturbing articles about the German Democratic Republic over in the West. Causing quite the stir. Causing… problems."

So that's what this is about, he realizes. They're trying to shut her up. And Clarke, brave, _stupid_ Clarke— she's been writing this stuff, knowing the danger of it? She hadn't told him. He thought she was a fluff journalist for God's sake, and she completely and deliberately let him believe it. Bellamy is going to kill her.

God, _they're_ literally going to kill her. They're going to kill her and there's nothing he can do about it.

He takes a few deep breaths and attempts to calm himself— yes, they might kill her, but he will see her again. It's okay.

The thought doesn't really help, somehow.

"Your work as an accomplice can be forgiven," he's told. "You will be allowed to go back to your life. If you tell us what we need to know."

He swallows, hyperaware still of the agent in the room practically breathing down his neck. It's been at least a minute since the last time he got hit. "What? I don't know what the hell she's working on. She never told me a damn thing." He's not faking his frustration, and maybe it shows.

"Then tell us how you were meeting with her before the Agreement was signed."

He swallows. He can't exactly tell the secret service he's been reincarnated with this girl for centuries. "Before the Wall, we were friends."

This time a hand on the back of his neck slams his head forward against the bars, and pain explodes through his forehead. He falls backward limply with a groan of pain, chair tipping back slightly. The agent behind him steadies the chair so it doesn't tip over completely. Then he pushes his head forward, so he's forced to look through the little window again.

The interrogator waits patiently while this is happening, and then: "She would've been five years old, and you ten, at most. Clearly, you were communicating in some other way to become as close as you did."

Well, they're not wrong in that logic. But still. There's no way for him to tell the truth. "For fuck's sake!" Bellamy snaps. His head is throbbing. "It's not some epic life-long love story, alright? She came through the Wall that first time, I stumbled into her, and we started having sex. Sometimes I take her out for milkshakes after I fuck her. There's no _communication_ involved." The lies taste disgusting in his mouth, but he's desperate.

He probably comes off more as being mouthy, though, because the next thing he knows he's thrown to the floor and kicked in the gut, once, then twice.

And then it stops. He pries one eye open, bewildered. The agent in front of him walks over to the door and opens it, polite as you please, and gestures for Bellamy to leave the room.

Bellamy stares from where he's still in the fetal position on the floor. The agent stares back. Bellamy finally gets up off the floor, wincing at the pain searing through his stomach, and goes through the door.

He's led back through the hallways they walked in through, and once they reach the outside doors, he realizes with disbelief he's being allowed to leave.

They pack him back into the van and then they're back at the factory, now completely closed down for the night. Bellamy's Trabant is the only one in the lot.

"We'll be in touch," the Stasi agent shoving him out of the van says. "I think you know better than to talk to anyone about this." And then they're gone, and he's left standing by his Trabant, almost doubting whether it happened at all. The dull pain in his forehead and stomach, as well as the sensitivity of his skin when he prods his cheek, is the only real indicator that it did.

—

His family's not surprised when he comes home hours later than he usually does.

"We got a phone call from the foreman that you had a small accident at work and that you'd be late," his mother says, concerned as she feels the bruise on his forehead. "Oh, dear. We'll put ice on that. Your dinner's still here. And warm!"

He accepts the plate numbly.

"Your cheeks look so red," his father observes from the table. "Is the wind blowing really hard out there?" Sarah hurries forward to take his coat, and he just stands there like an idiot for a second before plastering on a smile.

"Yeah, it's almost hard to believe it's only September…"

—

Bellamy lives on edge for the next month. His entire family notices.

"I'm sorry you haven't seen your girlfriend for a few months, but I'm starting to think there's more going on," his father says to him.

Bellamy folds his arms and says nothing. He would take another sex talk over this one, honestly.

"Is everything alright with you and Clarissa?"

"Yeah," he says automatically, but then he makes the mistake of looking at his father, the concern on his face, and his facade crumbles a little. He rubs a hand over his face. "Yeah, no it's not."

"What happened? Did she leave you?"

"No," Bellamy says quickly, "That's not it. She's just not doing well, right now. And I can't help her." He scrubs his hands vigorously over his face, exhaling deeply, trying to control the tears that prick at his eyes.

He expects to be prodded for details, but instead his father says softly, "I know that feeling."

Bellamy looks up to see his father watching him with a sympathetic expression. His wife, like Bellamy's, is falling apart in front of him, but there's not much either of them can do.

"All we can do is support them in whatever way we can," his father says. "If your girl is anything like mine, she appreciates that more than you know."

He sighs, a shaky breath as he attempts to hold back tears, and nods. The older man reaches forward to hug him, and strangely that's what sets Bellamy off.

Or maybe not so strange. He'd forgotten, over all these lifetimes, what it was like to have a father.

—

A few days later, Bellamy gets hit by a car.

Well, the car is heading for his sister; she's walking ahead of him because she's mad at him for not telling her what's going on with him. They're heading to the bakery for a bite to eat for breakfast when he sees the car— a Trabant— barrelling towards her and he doesn't think, he just moves.

He shoves her out of the way, so he takes the brunt of the impact and more.

He flutters in and out of consciousness for the next little while. At his next moment of lucidity, he dimly registers he's in a hospital, on a gurney. Doctors are flitting around him, but he just registers his sister's tear-stained face in his vision, bent over him.

"Mom and Dad are coming right now," she says, trying to sound stern and failing. "The doctors are going to take you to surgery. Stay alive."

He blinks sluggishly and tries to speak.

"Don't talk," Sarah says.

"Love you," he manages.

"I said don't talk!" his sister snaps.

He tries to swallow but finds he can't. "Stasi," he says next.

A gleam of curiosity gleams through her eye at the mention of the secret police but then it's replaced with desperation again. She strokes his hair out of his vision. "Shh. You're going to make it."

He ignores her. His entire body is ablaze with pain, so he focuses all his efforts on forming words. "If I don't… Tell Clar…"

"That you love her? You can tell her your damn self, Benji."

He closes his eyes; he's so damn tired. "L…."

"I know. She knows. She knows you love her."

He tries to shake his head but can't. "Tell her… _live_." That's his last word before he passes out.

He doesn't wake up. Despite the doctor's efforts, he dies in surgery. Time of death, approximately ten in the morning on October 5, 1973.

—

Numbly, Clarke presses play on the small audio recording that had been anonymously sent to her. Bellamy's voice, crackling with static but undeniably his, sounds out again. "For fuck's sake! It's not some epic life-long love story, alright? She came through the Wall that first time, I stumbled into her, and we started having sex. Sometimes I take her out for milkshakes after I fuck her. There's no _communication_ involved." The tape ends. Clarke methodically rewinds and stabs play again.

As Bellamy proceeds to detail again how Clarke is nothing but a good fuck, she decides this is only confirmation of her fears. The Stasi sent her this. And Sarah, the one who had told her what had happened over the phone, had mentioned one of Bellamy's last words had been _Stasi_.

And it's because of _her_ , and her work.

She'd received this stupid recording about a month back. It had shaken her, but it wasn't like she could talk to Bellamy about it. His number was cut off, and he never called her again. And her suspicions had already been in place by that point anyway. So instead of wallowing in her confusion and fear she'd gone to work and slaved away doubly hard on her latest piece.

So this was them playing their last card, she thinks. Well, fuck them. They can try and break her all they want. But Bellamy's death is only going to drive her. She's still going to write this damn article.

She hits replay on the tape player and turns back to her typewriter. _Zersetzung_ , she writes. The word literally means decomposition. _A tactic the GDR's Stasi use to silence their enemies, through psychological warfare. The aim is to break them in too subtle a way to be traced back to them, in the most intimate and private parts of their victims' lives, so that they are too distracted to fight against the regime. In my case, in my fight to_ expose _the regime._ She pauses in her writing. _Methods of Zersetzung I have recently found used against me: breaking into my home to misplace things. Attempting to break apart my relationships. Mysterious, baffling deliveries. Coming into my place of work after hours, shifting furniture and pictures and other things to cause me to think I've lost my mind._

She pauses again.

 _Maybe it worked, a little._

There's a knock on her room door, and she hits pause on the tape player.

The door creaks open a little. It's her sister, Charlotte, looking somber. "It's time to go if you want to make it. The funeral is in an hour over in East Berlin."

Clarke nods and scoots away from her typewriter. Charlotte, ever the nosy sister that she is, takes a few steps into the room. "You didn't tell us where you went."

Clarke says nothing. As soon as she heard Bellamy died, she'd taken off.

"I saw your travel papers. You went to France? Without _telling_ anyone?"

Yes. And her entire family was furious but, well, she was nearly nineteen, and didn't need their permission for anything anymore. She'd gone and found one of Bellamy's stashes he was always talking about, and she'd put it to good use.

She slides on her jacket and turns to grab her scarf, pausing when she realizes her green and white striped scarf is gone, and in it's place is a red and white striped one. She stares at it a moment, racking her brain. Was the scarf really ever green? Is she...

She swallows and counts to five. _You're not going mad, you're not going mad. They're just after you_.

Her hands still tremble as she puts the scarf on. She can't handle anything else today.

Charlotte doesn't get that, of course. "Look, I understand you're sad about Benji—"

"I'm not sad," Clarke snaps, winding her scarf around her neck, and that, at least, is true. No, it's a different feeling that's settled into her stomach over the past week. She walks past Charlotte. "Let's go."

—

The service is outdoors, and the sunniness of the day contrasts with the storm cloud that looms over the congregation. It bogs Clarke down as she watches quietly from the back. His family is there, as well as neighbours and other people that were in his life.

That best friend of his— Igor— makes a moving speech about the kind of person Bellamy was, and it's the only point during the service that Clarke is nearly moved to tears. He smiles softly at her as he finishes, and Clarke looks away. She herself declined to make any comments at his funeral, even though Bellamy's family asked if she wanted to. She's already attended two funerals for him. She doesn't have any words left to say. And while Sarah is crying beside the closed casket the only thing Clarke feels is the overwhelming urge to kick it.

Afterwards, while the congregation slowly migrates across the graveyard field to the church, where there are refreshments, Clarke stays standing by his casket. Sarah and Charlotte come up to her.

"I forgot to tell you," Sarah says in a thick voice. "His last words were to you. He said... he wanted you to live."

"What a jackass," Clarke replies without thinking.

"What?"

"I said he's a jackass," Clarke says, a little louder, and turns around to face the two shocked girls. She doesn't care anymore. Her red-white scarf is wrapped around her neck choking her, and she's losing her mind. "He wants me to live? Easy for him to say, since he's dead, and he'll wake up somewhere else and find me again, and I'm the one who has to suffer now. So yeah, he's a fucking _jackass_ if he thinks I'm doing that."

Charlotte gasps.

"What the hell, Clarissa?" Sarah slaps her across the face; Clarke takes it, and watches Bellamy's sister walk away, clearly upset.

"Clarissa?" Charlotte says hesitatingly as Clarke turns back around to face the casket. "I know you're sad, but—"

"I'm _not sad_!" Clarke yells. Her hands form fists at her sides. "I'm angry. He left me. Couldn't he wait a few years for the wall to come down?"

Silence.

Clarke shakes her head rapidly. It's starting to hurt. "No, he just went and _died_." She bares her teeth. "I'm going to kill him when I see him again."

"You're not making any sense," Charlotte says fearfully. "Clarissa… You haven't been yourself lately. Even before Benji died."

Clarke hugs herself, ignoring Charlotte. What does anything she says matter? Her sister, and the rest of her family, will be dead in a few decades. They won't come back. The only ones that ever come back are Clarke and Bellamy. The terrible truth of it all is that he's the only one that matters, in the grand scheme of things.

She's suddenly faced with the prospect of living out an entire life _without_ the one thing that matters, and it makes her eyes shift to the road stretching on in front of the cemetery, where cars are whizzing by.

Her feet start moving on their own, briskly heading in that direction.

Charlotte catches her arm before she can make it more than a few steps. "What are you doing?"

"Dying," Clarke announces, wrenching her wrist out of her grip. "Right now. No more wasting time."

"What?" Her sister is shocked, and tries to grab her again. When Clarke shakes her off a second time, she screams for help. Then more hands are on her, wrenching her back. She turns her head. It's her other sisters.

"Get _off_ me!" she hisses.

"Clarissa," she's gently told, in a voice she hasn't heard used on her since she was in a mental institution. "You're not yourself right now."

She pulls at them again, but she can't fight them all off, especially when they're drawing attention, and more people are headed their way. "Let go of me!"

Her sister clings to her, tears in her eyes as well. "Never."

"I want to be with him. Let me be with him," she sobs. She struggles futilely against her sisters' hands.

"Jesus Christ," Igor exhales sadly from behind them. Dimly, Clarke knows she must seem like a total mess, but somehow she can't seem to find it in herself to _care_. The only thing she cares about is meeting Bellamy again. It hurts too much to face a world where he's gone. Again.

But she's being pushed away from the road, torn away from her chance to be reunited with him. It's breaking her heart. Dimly, she hears her sister whispering in her ear, smoothing down her hair, telling her there's so much to live for. But Clarke just shakes her head, over and over, tears finally burning at her eyes.

And then all at once she starts _laughing_.

None of them seem to expect that. But once she starts, she can't stop. She stops fighting them and just laughs, the movements wracking her shoulders more than sobs ever could. Because it's funny, all of a sudden. A long time ago, she swore to Bellamy that every lifetime she had would _mean_ something to her. It had to, for her existence to keep feeling meaningful. And now here she is. From an outsider's perspective, she's trying to kill herself. Because nothing else holds meaning— because despite her best efforts, she's lost her humanity somewhere along the way.

So she laughs.

She keeps laughing until eventually she's dragged away. She's still quietly giggling to herself when she's admitted back to the same mental institution she was in as a child.

From far away, Bellamy's apartment neighbour, Mrs. Schmidt, watches with keen eyes as Clarissa Graeber laughs madly, and she overhears the whispers of her family that the mental illness she'd had as child has made a comeback. That's all the intel she needs.

The old woman glances at Benji's casket one last time. She's truly sad about his death; he was a good boy. But the Stasi paid her well to be an informant and she needed the money. She nods briskly to herself and leaves the cemetery to relay her information to the secret police: that after successfully inducing another psychotic break, the Republic doesn't have to worry about this journalist anymore. Clarissa's second admittance into a mental institution will effectively destroy any credibility as a journalist she can ever have again. Whatever article she was working on is no longer a threat.

The Stasi close their file on Clarissa Graeber, and shelve it next to Benjamin Black's.

—

It's a month after his son's death that Bellamy's father opens the mail for the day, expecting to find more bills for his wife's medical care. They are hardly keeping up with payments, and without Benji there to supplement his income, he thinks they might be at a point where they can't afford anymore.

But when he opens today's envelope, it's not a bill that falls out. It's a notice.

He reads it once, then goes back to the beginning to re-read, disbelieving. It can't be.

"What is it?" His wife asks.

"Your bills," he says in amazement. "They've all been paid."

She comes closer to stare at the paper. "That's impossible. Who would have done that?"

There's no name; an anonymous donor. They'll never find out who it was that set up an account with enough money in it to pay Bellamy's mother's medical bills for a lifetime.

And they certainly won't ever connect it back to the ex-journalist who now lives out her days in a mental institution in West Berlin.

 _._

 _._

 _Ultimately, the universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we have to care about each other._ —David Leviathan

.

— 2051: VANCOUVER (CANADA) —

.

.

Clo comes to the sad conclusion that she's got feelings for her teacher about halfway through the semester.

She's sitting at her desk in English Literature, her chin resting on her hands. Mr. Blake is standing in front of his desk, leaning slightly on it. His arms are crossed over his white dress shirt, sleeves rolled up his forearms, and his legs crossed as if bored. His gaze is lowered to the floor, completely oblivious to her stare. As relaxed as he appears, one might almost think he's not paying attention to his class at all.

But then Ryan, who's currently reading aloud from _Beowulf_ , mispronounces a word and she watches her teacher's curly-haired head shoot up.

"'Doughty,'" Mr. Blake cuts off Clo's boyfriend. "It means brave. 'Of earls to be honored; sure the atheling is _doughty_ , who headed the heroes hitherward coming.'"

Ryan's face flushes and he straightens his book, mumbling something about how stupid the poem is. The class titters. Mr. Blake just continues looking at him plainly. Clo smiles to herself. Ryan has never been very good at reading aloud, and so far that's all that this class has been about.

Ryan repeats the sentence with the proper pronunciation in place, stumbling slightly. Mr. Blake makes no comment, just looks to Clo's friend Queenie, who's supposed to read the next part.

As the class continues, Clo takes up her examination of her teacher again. He's hot, yes. She already knew she had a crush on him since the beginning of September, the first time she'd seen him. The news had come at the end of the previous school year that the old Literature teacher was retiring and there was a new, very young one coming in. But on her first day of school a month and a half later, her heart had dropped into her stomach to see him standing at the front of the classroom, holding a stack of syllabus sheets. He was gorgeous, and she knew she wasn't the only one that thought so. Half the class were enamoured. At least, until he finished going over the course outline and gave them an assignment on the first damn day of class.

But Clo's still pathetically into him for a girl who has a boyfriend. But he's just— so kind. And gentle, and he doesn't condescend, even to Ryan when he mispronounces the simplest of words. On top of it all, his childlike enthusiasm for the written works of old is absolutely contagious. And adorable.

"Clo?" She's jarred out of her thoughts to find Mr. Blake looking at her expectantly. She doesn't think it's her imagination that his gaze is a little warmer on her than it is on her classmates, though.

She blinks a few times.

"Clo, you're up," Mr. Blake repeats patiently. "Next stanza. Start at Line 80."

Clearly he could tell she hadn't been paying attention. Embarrassed, she bends down to her book and clears her throat. After her turn is over, he nods as if in approval and moves on to the next, and Clo spends the next twenty minutes staring at the Oppenheimer quote poster on the wall.

The bell that marks the end of the school day cuts off the class discussion, and everyone leaps up in the middle of Mr. Blake's sentence.

As people practically scramble for the door, he raises his voice above the din to say, "Your assignment is to write a minimum half page paragraph on your thoughts on Hrothgar so far. For tomorrow." The statement prompts a dozen groans from the students, but he doesn't seem to notice or care.

As Clo packs up her books, Queenie leans in close to whisper, voice easily lost in the loud sounds of chairs scraping and people talking, "I've decided he's ugly."

Clo looks at her friend with bemusement. "I seem to remember you saying on the first day of school that if you weren't a lesbian, he could 'get it.'"

Queenie waves her hand impatiently at Clo's judging tone. "I said he was nice to _look_ at. Stop projecting on me. But even being pretty doesn't make up for being a complete hardass." She shakes her head, swiping up her books.

Clo goes to the library for the next hour while Queenie goes to catch her bus. Clo takes the city bus and it doesn't come for another hour, which would _normally_ be annoying. But it's not, for just one reason.

When she gets on the bus, that one reason is already sitting in the back, his book already open, and Clo has to hide a grin as she strides over.

"I don't understand how you always beat me to the bus stop. I ran all the way here."

Mr. Blake glances up from his book, lips quirking up. "You were late. Nearly missed the bus." As if to punctuate his point, the bus jerks into movement just as Clo wraps her hand around one of the vertical poles, standing in front of him. There are plenty of seats around, but somehow sitting down with her teacher always feels too formal.

"What are you reading today?" she asks him instead.

He holds it up to show her. _The Crucible_. "We're reading this in a few weeks in class," he tells her.

"Ooh, for once I've actually heard of that one," she says excitedly. "The one about Salem witch trials or something like that, right?"

He smiles. Just a little. "Something like that, yeah. It's actually an allegory for the McCarthy era of the Cold War."

The bus turns rapidly and she holds tighter to the pole. "Cold War, huh? Can't wait to read it."

Mr. Blake huffs a laugh. "I really can't tell if you're being sarcastic."

"No!" she protests, and suddenly she thinks that Mr. Blake is more aware than she thought about how some of his students feel towards his class. "No, seriously. You always make it interesting."

He glances away, and maybe it's her imagination but there looks to be a slight tinge of a blush on his cheeks. "You're probably the only one that thinks so."

"That's not true," she says firmly. "Look, everyone thinks you teach really well. It's just that you give us so many assignments, and most of us have a lot going on already. So um, people kind of don't like that."

He blinks a few times, like he'd never considered it. "You serious?"

The bus makes another sharp turn and Clo wraps herself around the pole to brace herself. And then realizes she probably has a stripper pose going on so quickly extricates herself again. "I mean, I think that's why."

"Why didn't anyone just say so?" He sounds a little frustrated, and runs a hand over his face. She's surprised. "This is my first time teaching. It would make things a lot easier if I got some feedback once in awhile."

"Teachers don't usually listen to feedback," Clo points out lightly.

He snorts. "Fair point."

They lapse into silence for the next few minutes, him staring thoughtfully down at his book and Clo staring out the window, watching the scenery and the bridge go by. And then it's her stop, so she pauses to say, "See you tomorrow, Mr. Blake."

He looks up at her again. "As long as you don't skip again."

She gasps in outrage. "That was _one_ time!" But he's chuckling, so she just rolls her eyes and gets off the bus.

—

"Mr. Blake's been kidnapped," Queenie announces during lunch break several days later, leaning against Clo's locker.

She looks up. "Queenie, he's standing right there." He's just down the hall, talking to the art teacher, Ms. Altavilla, who has a notorious crush on him, one that he's notoriously oblivious to.

Queenie holds up a finger. "He's only give us one measly assignment this past week. Clearly, he's been replaced with a pod person."

Clo rolls her eyes as Queenie saunters off, still muttering to herself, and in the next moment she gets crowded up against her locker by a warm body.

"Hey, Clo," Ryan says against her neck.

She hums in response. "Are we still on for that study date after school?" Code for sex, obviously, but she thinks it might take her mind off a certain hot teacher that she's crushing on.

His hands tighten on her hips momentarily and he steps back, so she turns around.

"That fucking jack-off Blake gave me detention today," he grumbles, looking pissed about missing out on this opportunity.

Her eyebrows raise. Without being able to stop herself, she glances down the hall to where Mr. Blake had been, but neither of the teachers are there anymore. The prospect that maybe he finally relented to a lunch date with Ms. Altavilla has her stomach curdling. She turns back to Ryan, hands on hips. "You were in detention yesterday, too. What did you do _this_ time?"

"Don't talk to me like that," Ryan snaps. "He gave me detention for no reason."

She presses on. "There had to have been a reason."

"There wasn't." He looks over her head, lips twisting into a scowl. "He just looked at me in detention yesterday and said I had another one today. No fucking reason, like I said."

"That doesn't sound like him," she mumbles, almost to herself. He looks at her sharply.

"What would _you_ know about him?"

"Nothing," she says quickly, straightening. But he's already talking again.

"Forget it. He's just an asshole."

"You should talk to him, though. That's not fair. I'll go with you," she adds in encouragement.

Ryan looks to be sorely regretting even bringing up the topic. "I said fucking forget it, okay?" He pushes off the lockers and storms off.

—

She doesn't forget it. She needs answers; she can't just let things _go_. Ryan should know better.

So she finds Mr. Blake in his classroom before the end of lunch period. He's got a Subway sandwich in his hand and a pen for marking in the other, and he looks up when she enters.

As always, his eyes warm up a little for her. "Clo," he greets her. His expression grows to puzzlement as she says nothing, just strides all the way over to his desk and smacks her palms down on it.

"Why'd you give Ryan detention?"

Any warmth in his expression disappears at the mention of Ryan's name. "What?"

"You heard me." As she's talking, she finds herself getting pricked with anger. "You gave him detention but didn't even tell him the reason. Well, I want to know. Why?"

He blinks at her slowly, registering her words, and then something else flits over her face, something she didn't expect: sympathy. It's gone before she can figure out what it means, and then he speaks, slowly as if carefully measuring out his words. "He knows exactly why I gave him detention."

"Yeah? Well, he doesn't seem to. So maybe you should be a little more clear."

He doesn't say anything to that, his gaze hard and unreadable. There's a muscle ticking away in his jaw, which might fascinate her if she weren't kind of pissed.

The words come out of her mouth before she can stop them. "For an English teacher, you're pretty shitty at communication."

He's standing within the instant. "You want detention too?" he growls.

Despite the fact that she now has to look up a little to glare at him, she doesn't back down. "What I want," she replies, "is for you to tell me exactly why you put my boyfriend in detention. And if not, tell _him_ why. So that he can tell me. Either way, I'm going to know. So spit it out already."

He stares hard at her for another moment, and just when she thinks he's really going to put her in detention too for being so bold— all at once he swallows and looks away. "Clo..."

The utterance of her name is so soft and gentle that it catches her off guard.

"I gave him detention because of the way he was talking about you."

She blinks.

He doesn't elaborate, just stares at her like he's waiting for her to get it. But he can't possibly mean…

"How was he talking about me?" she demands, leaning in.

He looks away again. "He was talking to some of his friends about you. Inappropriate things."

"Sexual things," she says flatly.

He winces. "Yeah."

She puts her hands on her hips, her anger now directed to a new source. "What kind of things?"

He hesitates. "It was crass."

"Did he talk about me sucking his dick or something?"

He makes a strangled sound and runs a hand over his face. "Jesus, Clo. Yes. Among other things. He had a picture on his phone he was showing them too." And he pulls it out of his drawer where he's apparently confiscated it, muttering, "I shouldn't even be showing you this."

She snatches it out of his hand and types in Ryan's code, the one she's seen him type in when he thought he was being so covert about it.

Scrolling through his pictures she immediately finds the offending photo. It's her, naked in the sheets of Ryan's bed, and fast asleep. If she had to guess it was taken the last time she had sex with him a week ago. She'd never given him permission to do this.

Her horror has flooded to her face, and he sees it.

"I didn't look at it, whatever it is," he says softly. "It was pretty obvious what he was showing them from their conversation so I just took the phone away."

She's still staring at the phone. With a shaking hand she deletes the picture but can't seem to tear her gaze away from the screen.

"I'm sorry," he says softly.

She collects herself, taking a deep breath so she can look back up at him with what she hopes is clear eyes. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"If you shouldn't be showing me this," she says slowly, waving the phone in his face, "Because it's against school policy or whatever, why did you?"

His jaw works but he doesn't answer right away. When his lips part, the bell rings and they both jump.

He takes the phone from her. "You should get to class." He's back to being brisk and formal. She's still shaking from the revelation that her boyfriend has been going behind her back, so all she can do is nod, stunned and make to turn around.

But then his hand is on her shoulder. "Clo."

She freezes up for a second. He's never touched her before and she's just realizing it now. Because the weight of his hand is warm and heavy and reassuring. She glances back.

"I'm not going to try and meddle with a student's private life," he tells her. "But whatever you decide to do, just remember that you deserve to be respected."

Strangely, she feels a little close to tears upon those words, and she blinks them away furiously. The door opens and kids start walking in for the class that he's teaching next. He lets go of her shoulder. She steps away.

"I know. Thanks, Mr. Blake," she whispers, and flees.

—

"So, are you telling me you broke up with him?" Queenie asks impatiently over the phone that night. "Because that's what I'm hearing."

"We had a huge fight and I told him to fuck off," Clo sighs, drawing her feet closer to her chest as she stares up at her bedroom ceiling. "I don't know where we stand. But Queenie. He was showing his friends pictures of me _naked_ and he didn't even seem that apologetic when I confronted him about it."

Queenie makes a noise of sympathy. "Such bullshit. He was a jackass from the beginning anyway, I told you."

"But you think _all_ guys are jackasses."

"Not _all_."

Her lips tug into the first semblance of a smile she has worn for the past several hours. "Name one you don't think is a jackass."

There's a long pause at the other end of the line. "Hey! I know. Mr. Blake," Queenie says. "Or at least, Mr. Blake's pod person, so I approve if you want to date him next. And also, my dad's not a jackass. But, please don't date him."

Clo snorts in laughter. But she was finally feeling a little better.

—

She meets Mr. Blake on the bus to school the next morning. She'd been unable to face Mr. Blake after school the day before, so she'd taken Queenie's bus to her house and got driven back to her own home. But now she has to face him.

When she gets on, he's not reading. He's looking for her.

When he finds her, she smiles at him, and some tension seems to leave his body. He smiles back, and she approaches.

"Hi," she says.

"Hey," he replies. A pause. "How are you?"

For once, she plops into the seat next to him. She needs comfort today. "I'll manage."

He nods once, and they don't talk for the rest of the way to the school. He doesn't try to prompt conversation and she appreciates it.

And over the next few weeks, she notices Mr. Blake giving Ryan the longest and most wordy sections of the texts to read aloud. While correcting him, there's now a slight smile on his face, not quite an obvious smirk but if Ryan's purpling expression is anything to go by, it still feels condescending.

Clo had had no idea Mr. Blake had it in him to be condescending. But the first time he does it he turns slightly to her and winks, fast enough that she might have missed it had she not been paying attention; and she decides it's the funniest thing she's ever seen.

—

On the last day of the semester she walks to the bus with Mr. Blake.

"So," he says to her, unwinding his scarf a bit. It's really cold out. "Last day of school for the semester, over. Excited to be done?"

She makes a face, her boots slipping slightly on the ice. He catches her arm immediately, steadying her so that she can clamber onto the bus. "Not excited for exams." She looks at him hopefully as he gets on behind her. "Would you make yours optional if I asked nicely?"

He grins, and it's so adorable her heart skips a beat. "Not a chance."

"Worth a shot." He sits down as usual, and she clings onto the pole in front of him as usual. "I'll try again next semester." She's taking the second part of the Literature course with him, and she's quite happy about the prospect of spending another few months in his classroom.

"You can try," he says with amusement once they're settled. The bus creaks into motion. "How'd your art project go, by the way?"

Clo makes a face. She's been complaining about this project to him on the bus for the last few weeks. And now she pulls it, rumpled, out of her backpack. "I gave it my all and… Ms. Altavilla gave me a B." She throws her piece of artwork at him in disgust.

He catches it, eyebrows going up. "This is beautiful." His thumb strokes over it delicately, handling it much more carefully than she had when she crammed it into her backpack.

"I know," she says hotly. "And she gave me a _B_."

"A B's not bad."

"Yes, well, some of us want to go to a good university."

He raises an eyebrow, handing it back to her. "What are you implying?"

She ignores that, taking it back and stuffing it back in her bag with even more vigour than the last time. "What I'm _implying_ is that you should talk to Ms. Altavilla for me and get me the A I deserve."

He barks out a laugh. "Even assuming I would try, why would she listen to me? I'm not exactly an art aficionado."

She stares at him, wondering if he's really that dense, and opens her mouth to point out Ms. Altavilla's huge crush on him when suddenly the bus _swerves_ out of nowhere.

It skids uncontrollably on a patch of ice, and Clo barely has time to clutch onto the pole a little tighter as people scream and the bus careens off the road, towards the river.

And then it all goes black.

—

She comes to slowly.

First it's the distant sound of sirens wailing in her ears, and a soft familiar voice in her ear, murmuring words she can't distinguish.

Then it's pain. Mostly in her leg, splitting with agony; but there's a pulsing ache in general throughout her body.

Then it's that she's cold. _So_ damn cold, and soaked to the bone.

Then she jackknifes up into sitting position, coughing water violently.

Instantly there's a hand at her back, and she blearily opens her eyes. She's lying on the frosty grass right beside the river. The bus she was in seemingly moments ago is in the river, too, halfway submerged. It's a surreal sight. There are people being pulled out of it by paramedics.

And her eyes then shift to Mr. Blake, kneeling in front of her with a slash across his cheek and concern in his eyes. Except he's not Mr. Blake anymore.

He's _Bellamy_.

And she's Clarke.

Her next thought is the first one that she voices. "Bellamy, what the hell?"

He rocks back on his heels. He looks soaked to the bone, and shivering even more than she is. "The bus went into the lake," he says, voice hoarse. "You were the only one standing instead of sitting when it did. Got pretty banged up." He swallows, pushing a strand of her wet hair behind her ear.

She still doesn't get it.

"You weren't breathing," he adds, sounding a little desperate, a little pleading. "I pulled you out of the bus and when I got you here I realized you weren't breathing." His voice shakes.

She now realizes her chest hurts too, like an elephant was sitting on it. She presses a hand to her sternum, wincing. "You did CPR."

He swallows. "And mouth to mouth," he adds unnecessarily. Clarke had already figured that part out. "And that's when… well…"

They stare at each other. Clarke takes him in, because it's been a while. He's doing the same to her.

"Your hair is shorter in this life," he notes.

"Yours is longer," she retorts. It brushes over his eyebrows more than she remembers from Berlin.

His lips quirk up. "I didn't say it was a bad thing."

"I didn't either." She pauses, looks down at her shaking hands. They should not be talking so casually right now. There are things to _discuss_. "I think we're in shock."

"I think you'd be right," he agrees. The paramedics are finally making their way towards them, having tended to those still trapped in the bus.

Clarke shifts, intending to get up, but a sharp pain sears through her leg and she falls back with a pained groan.

"I think her leg might be broken," Bellamy tells the paramedics. "And she stopped breathing for a minute there."

They set a stretcher next to Clarke. "What about you?" they ask him.

"I'm fine."

Clarke scoffs and the paramedics look at her. "He's not fine. Look at him, at the very least he's in shock. Probably hypothermic."

"You should come with us too," the paramedic tells Bellamy, who's glaring at Clarke. "Overnight observation."

"Please," Clarke says softly, and Bellamy sighs.

"Fine."

—

It's a whirlwind of doctors and family for a while, and at the end of it all Clarke is simply lying in bed, unable to sleep despite the meds. She tries not to look too long at the blank white wall of the hospital room; it reminds her too much of her time institutionalized in Berlin.

She is calmed somewhat when Bellamy walks through the door.

Her head snaps his way. He's a silhouette in the hallway, wearing a hospital gown, at least until he closes the door behind him, sealing them in pitch black darkness.

"You okay?" He asks quietly.

"Well, my leg is broken and I have a cracked rib thanks to CPR—"

"That's not what I was talking about," he cuts her off.

He gives her a meaningful look; after a moment, she realizes he must have seen her expression when he'd walked in.

"The hospital… it kind of reminds me of Berlin," she admits, and takes a deep breath. "I'm fine now. I'm fine."

There's a long pause where she can tell he's examining her. Eventually, he apparently decides to drop it, possibly sensing she doesn't want to elaborate. "We need to talk," he says instead.

"You shouldn't even be out of bed."

"They're discharging me in the morning." He shuffles closer, so that she can barely make out his face as her eyes adjust. "We need to talk about… us."

"What's there to talk about?" Clarke asks, even though she already knows what he's getting at from the tone of his voice. "I found you again."

"And I'm glad," he replies softly, his hand brushing over her forehead. She closes her eyes. A pause. "But you know we can't be together, right?"

Her eyes snap back open. "Why not?"

"You know why not. I'm your teacher. You're a teenager."

Her mouth drops open in outrage. "I'm nearly eighteen!"

He answers readily, like he's been thinking about this. "I'm twenty-three. You should— you should be able to enjoy being young."

"What, like you're a senior citizen?"

He ignores her. "I'm your teacher, Clarke. You _know_ this can't work." He sounds a little cold, a little logical, and it infuriates her. He turns away from her anger to start pacing around the small room. "We shouldn't stop our lives because of this. You should still go to university like you were planning."

She clutches tighter to her bedsheets, enraged. "But everything has changed. Plans can change, too. I want to be with you."

"That's great, Clarke," he deadpans, stopping his pacing to look at her. "Can't wait until I'm fired for having an affair with my student. Maybe even go to jail."

That thought quells her anger a bit, and she shuts her mouth. It's true; social rules have changed since Berlin. Germany's age of consent is fourteen. Their relationship back then was completely normal. But now? Not so much.

Meanwhile, he's still talking. "I've thought about this, okay Clarke? There's no way we can have our lives and have each other."

"Then we don't _have_ to have our lives. We could leave," she attempts. "We could run, just _go_ somewhere by oursel—"

" _Stop_ ," he says, abruptly stopping his pacing to look at her. His voice is ragged. Now she sees what she couldn't before; conflict in his expression, bitterness even. "I'm not taking your life away from you again. I already did that once."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I didn't think I'd need to remind you that you were in a mental institution for _years_ in Berlin because of me," he replies bitterly, not looking at her. "I took your childhood from you, and I refuse to do it again. Please, stop."

Her lower lip quivers, and they stare at each other from across the room. "Bellamy…" she says softly, at a loss. She trails off, not quite knowing what to say to fix this. Maybe it's not fixable.

When the silences stretches on, his brow furrows. "And besides… you want to leave your family behind now? What happened to living every life as if it's your last?"

Clarke swipes a tear from her eye with her palm. "It's getting tiring. Maybe this—" she gestures between them— "is our real life now. And every reincarnation we live is just another day of it." It's a horrible thing to say, puts a pang in her stomach to even think that her family and friends are just cardboard cutouts in a fabricated existence. But she's tired. She's so tired, at this point all she wants are simple answers.

He seems to mull that one over. "That kind of takes the meaning out of life, doesn't it?"

She shrugs emptily. "So I guess we just have to make up our own."

They stare at each other. She pushes her hair away from her face. His eyes follow the movement, and his hand twitches at his side as if it meant to move. It doesn't. The gap between them only seems to grow wider in the ensuing pause.

"Tell you what," Bellamy says abruptly. "Go to university like you were planning. I'll be waiting right here when you graduate. If that's what you still want."

She opens her mouth to argue it, at least until she notices how exhausted he looks, like he too is hanging by a thread. She's not the only one who's tired.

So she sighs. "Of course it is." But he just stands there, fists clenching and unclenching, and suddenly she can't take it anymore, being so far apart from him when she just found him again. "Come here."

His eyes cling to hers but he doesn't move.

She holds her arms out. "Please come here," she begs, sitting up in her bed as best she can. "Bellamy, I— I just want to touch you."

That gets him moving. Slowly— because she suspects he's more hurt than he's letting on, he comes to her side. She scrabbles a little blindly in the dark for his hand, and then it's there, sliding easily into hers. He squeezes tight.

"I'm here," he exhales. "Clarke, I'm here."

She reaches up, tugging at the collar of his hospital gown, making him bend closer. He follows her lead, pressing his cheek against hers, nuzzling against her skin. She clings to him and breathes in his scent. He turns his nose into her hair, inhaling. They melt into each other.

"The Stasi killed you, didn't they?" she murmurs to him.

"I think so." He sounds unbothered.

Tears prick at her eyes. "Because of me. Because I didn't stop." He says nothing. "I should have let it go." If she'd let it go— they could've been together, eventually.

"Clarke, stop," he whispers firmly, lips against her ear. "You couldn't have known. You barely even knew what was happening to you. There was so much more going on. You can't put this on yourself."

A tear still escapes her eye, and he pulls away for just a second, just to kiss it away and smooth her hair back, and she feels so right in this moment, with Bellamy at her side in this calm and dark hospital room, where she can almost pretend they're the only two people in the world.

The illusion shatters when the door opens.

Bellamy smoothly steps away, face now expressionless and standing at the foot of her bed. Clarke wipes at her eyes so she can see who's standing there. It's the nurse, and she's frowning at the sight of them.

"Mr. Blake? What are you doing in this room?" She looks sharply at Clarke. "Clo, honey, is he bothering you?"

"No," Clarke says hastily, still wiping at her cheeks. "No, I know him. It's alright."

The nurse looks between the two of them for another moment before realization dawns. "Oh, that's right! How silly of me that I forgot. He's your teacher, right? You were both on the bus in that accident yesterday."

Clarke nods, smiling with relief. "That's it. We were just talking."

Confusion again. "At three in the morning?" She looks between them again. "Surely it could wait until morning. Mr. Blake, you should really go back to bed."

"I will," Bellamy says tonelessly. The nurse doesn't move, folding her arms and arching a brow at him. Clearly she's not leaving until he does. After a pause, he moves for the door.

"No, he can stay," Clarke says helplessly, reaching out a hand to empty air as he heads out.

"You should both be asleep," the nurse says sternly. Behind her, Bellamy pauses at the door to look back at Clarke. Just a look, but it's soft, and it feels like a hug. Then he disappears into the hallway.

Exhaling, Clarke slumps back into her pillows. She expects the nurse to leave right away, but she doesn't.

"I had a crush on one of my teachers in high school, too," the nurse says with something of nostalgic air.

Blood rushes to Clarke's cheeks, and she's thankful for the darkness. "I don't have a crush on him."

She smiles indulgently at Clarke. "Well, good. Keep it that way. I got a C in the class he taught because I never really heard a word he said." She giggles to herself, almost childlike, and turns to the door. "Good night, honey."

—

Clarke's in the hospital for a solid week, a time in which she gets countless visits from her parents, seven from Queenie, three from the rest of her collective friend group, and absolutely none from Bellamy.

That pisses her off. A lot.

Her mom comes in on the last day and informs her that she has to reschedule all her class exams because of her injury. Except one.

"Mr. Blake apparently said you don't have to do the exam," her mom says. "That was kind of him."

That makes her slightly less pissed off.

When she gets home and finishes her exams, she tries pulling up his address, or phone number, or anything. But 'Bradbury Blake' (speaking of which, she has got to remember to make fun of him later) doesn't pull up any results.

When the semester starts again, she's on crutches. She runs into Bellamy in the hallway on her way to her first class.

He stops short in front of her. "Clo," he says politely. "How's the leg?"

She glares at him, still irritated about his radio silence, but two of her friends are at her side watching the exchange. "Pretty broken." She wiggles her casted leg for effect. "The doctors say it'll be three months before it's completely healed."

He glances down at her cast and the trace of a smile crosses his face. "Is there anyone on earth who hasn't signed your cast yet?"

She looks down at it and then back at him, grinning despite herself. She can hardly see any white space. "Someone's uncle somewhere, I'm sure." His lips tug up further. She gets so caught up in his smiling eyes that she almost forgets there are about twenty witnesses around them. She clears her throat and adds casually, "And you."

One of her friends tugs at his baseball cap and makes an enthusiastic noise. "Dude, Mr. Blake! You should sign it."

Not taking his eyes off Clarke, he nods. "Later, maybe." He straightens, professional mask back in place. "And Mr. Martinez, I'm not your 'dude'. Now go to class."

—

She has her first class of the semester with him at the end of the day again, which suits her just fine since it gives her ample time to saunter (as well as one with a cast and crutches can saunter) over to his desk after the bell rings.

He barely looks at her as all the other students flee through the door, choosing to sit down in his chair behind his desk. "Clo. Questions about the syllabus?" His tone is brisk as he bends under his desk to grab his bag.

Clarke looks at the syllabus in her hand. "Yes, actually. It says under your contact info that your phone number is the school's number."

His back stiffens for a moment before he straightens with his laptop bag in hand. "What's your point, Clarke?"

"My point is give me your cell phone number."

His answer is swift. "No."

"Oh, come on," she complains. They're alone in the room now. "You're going to deny your wife your cell phone number? Really, Bellamy?"

"You're my student, not my wife."

That stings a little, but he's avoiding her eyes so she can't give him a death glare. She opts for a sugary voice instead. "What if I get stabbed and bleed out in a ditch or something? How am I going to contact you?"

That gives him pause, but eventually he replies, "You should really call the ambulance, not me."

She rolls her eyes. "What if I die from blood loss before they get to me?"

"If I give you my number, will you stop talking about things I try not to think about?" he says, sounding a little pained. As he says it, he fishes in his pocket, and Clarke nods excitedly. He tosses his phone at her within the next moment.

She texts herself so that she'll have his number and hands it back to him. With raised eyebrows he looks down at the message she sent herself— _Hey sexy_ — but makes no comment as he pockets it.

"Only contact me at this number for absolute emergencies," he instructs before she can feel disappointed.

She sighs. "I don't suppose you're going to change your stance from when we talked in the hospital?"

"Clarke," he says, voice far gentler now. "I want to be with you. Just not right now. It's not— it's not right."

"Why, because I'm seventeen?" she shoots at him, leaning over his desk a bit. "I'm almost eighteen. And remember when we got married the first time? I was _fifteen_ then. Practically an old bride."

He winces at the reminder. "Maybe that was normal a thousand years ago, Clarke. But it's not like that anymore. Just enjoy the life you have right now. For once, it's relatively normal."

She relents for now, sighing and her shoulders sagging. "Fine."

He watches her dejectedly slump and after a moment he opens his desk drawer, producing a Sharpie. "Any room on that cast of yours?"

It's a stupid thing to get cheered up about, but it does the trick. She eagerly sticks out her foot. "If there's not, you can just write over one of the dicks Queenie drew."

He chuckles low and stands up from his chair. In the next moment he gets on one knee in front of her. Her cast extends almost all the way up to her knee, and before she can prepare for it his hand reaches out to cup her leg right behind the knee, lifting it just a little more for his inspection. As he examines it for free space, his hand slides down her calf, over her cast; and although his palm is separated from her skin by thick layers, she swears she could feel his warmth caressing her anyway.

It feels too intimate, and she's glad he's preoccupied scribbling something near the rim of her cast to see how her cheeks have flushed from his pseudo touch. When he's done writing, he continues to kneel at her foot, reading the messages friends and family have left.

"A lot of people love you," he comments, eyes flicking up to hers meaningfully. "Don't waste it. This is a good life you've got."

She holds his gaze. "I can think of a few ways to make it better."

Neither of them move for another moment. And then there's a theatrical throat clearing at the door, and both of them whip their heads that way.

It's Queenie, looking like she's biting her cheek hard before she speaks. "Hey Clo, I was gonna ask, wanna meet in the library? To start planning for that term project?"

"Yeah," Clarke replies, hoping her voice is normal. "Let's go." Meanwhile Bellamy stands up slowly, placing his marker back on his desk.

"Queenie," he greets the other girl without looking at her. "I'm a little disappointed you're not taking my class this semester."

"Yeah, well, I've got other things to do," Queenie says with attitude. Clarke smiles to herself. Queenie dropped Bellamy's class in order to take one with Grace, her crush. They're both hopeless.

"Bye, Mr. Blake," Clarke says. "Thanks for signing my cast."

When she and Queenie are in the hallway, Queenie rounds on her, snickering. "Oh my god. I swear it looked like he was proposing to you."

Clarke gulps and forces a laugh. It sounds a little unhinged. "Right. Not in a million years."

—

At the library, some of her friends are reading her cast again (Clarke can't wait until _that_ gets old) when one says, "What the hell does this say?"

Clarke looks down and sees that he's pointing at the spot where Bellamy wrote his message. She hadn't even thought to ask him what he had put. "Is it messy?"

He frowns, tilting his head. "It looks like a different language or something? Who wrote that?"

She tries to bend over her cast, but she can't see it properly upside down so she fishes out her phone. "Take a picture of it."

He obliges, and when she accepts it back she stares at it for a good ten seconds.

It's a short phrase written in Arabic. Not modern Arabic— It's an older version of the language that was used in Jerusalem most commonly by natives. As a princess, she'd known it too, but now she struggles to scrounge up memories of it. After a few seconds she can piece together what the message reads. And her heart stops.

 _I love you_.

"Clo?" her friend asks, puzzled. "What does it say?"

She unfreezes and clears her throat, pocketing her phone. "No idea."

—

Neither of them take the bus anymore. Clarke's parents have sworn to pick Clarke up every day after school, which is slightly annoying. But at the same time she's grateful because she's not sure she wants to be on that thing anymore. And _he's_ not on the bus because he got a new car. Well, 'new' is a bit of a stretch, but still.

("I'm _not_ taking you on a joyride," Bellamy says firmly when she asks, one day at lunch. He doesn't even look up from the tests he's marking. "Why would you even want to? Thing's a piece of shit anyway."

"Who said I was talking about the car?" Clarke asks innocently. Needless to say, she's sent out.)

For the next few weeks, life settles back to normal. Being able to see Bellamy five days a week is absolute heaven, but the fact that she's not allowed to touch him the way she wants is absolute torture. She'll take it.

She falls in love all over again from the second row of the classroom, watching him talk about whatever they're reading that week, the way his brow furrows as he considers a tough question from one of his students, even that time his temper slips when he overhears one student calling another a slut.

He looks furious as he sends them to the office, jaw clenched, a muscle jumping there. Clarke's fascinated by it. She sits up a little in her chair, tracing the tension of the line of his neck into his collar. The door slams shut behind the angry student and Bellamy's eyes shift to Clarke as if called there.

His dark gaze shifts slightly when he sees her sitting there, biting her lip. For a fraction of a second she swears there's actual lust there, but then he tears his gaze away and continues with the lesson as if nothing happened.

Intriguing. And— she crosses and uncrosses her legs under her desk restlessly— hot.

—

At first, it's not like she's trying to seduce him or anything. No, it's just that she wants to see how far this _goes_.

A few weeks later, she gets her cast off, although she still has to be careful.

She and her friends celebrate by going prom dress shopping; the event won't be for another three months, but most people go early to find their perfect dress. None of them are planning to go with dates ("Grace is almost as oblivious to me as Mr. Blake is to Altavilla," Queenie complains) but they are all going as a group.

It's in the dressing room, as she's debating between a green and a blue dress, that she's hit with an idea.

She takes her phone from her purse and pulls up Bellamy's number.

 _EMERGENCY!_ She texts him, followed quickly by, _I can't decide what colour dress to choose for prom_.

His answer pops up a minute later. _That's not an emergency_.

Holding back a grin, she types back, _Green or blue?_

She waits another few minutes, leaning against the stall door, but gets no response. Once she's certain he's ignoring her question, she goes for a new tactic.

Still wearing the green dress, she poses in the mirror, fluffing up her hair a little and pouting. The strapless cut of the dress does great things for her breasts, and _maybe_ she pushes her chest out just a bit when she takes a photo of herself. Then she changes into the blue one, does the same and sends them both to him with the caption: _Green or blue_?

This time, Bellamy's answer comes within half a minute. _Blue_.

She smirks and buys the blue one.

—

"I know what you're doing," Bellamy says to her after school one day, when she once again dawdles behind her peers.

"What do you mean?" She bats her eyelashes at him. He looks a little pained, glancing away and tugging at his necktie. Clarke is seized with the urge to replace that hand with her own but squashes it.

"I mean I know what you're doing."

"Explain."

He glares. "Sending me pictures of yourself. Batting your damn eyes at me in class. Leaning over my desk like you are right now, with your top half-unbuttoned."

Clarke looks down at herself, feigning surprise as she looks down at her own cleavage. "Oh, I didn't notice."

He's standing up in a flash, a muscle ticking in his jaw. "You're playing a dangerous game, Clarke."

She straightens to meet his gaze. "But it's fun."

"You know this is considered harassment? I could report you."

Her mouth drops open in indignation. "You wouldn't—"

A student walks through the door right then, stopping short at the sight of them. "Uhh…"

Bellamy's back to professionalism. "My classroom is detention today, Jared. You're in the right place." Jared nods and slouches over to the back. Bellamy turns his glare back at Clarke. "Get out or I'll report you."

"You should put me in detention too," Clarke purrs in a low voice. "I mean, according to you I've been bad, right?"

Bellamy doesn't bat an eye. "I'll send you to the principal's office. You can tell him how _bad_ you are then." Clarke scoffs at the bluff, but just then more students filter into the classroom, effectively ending the conversation.

—

Clarke tries to tone it down. She really does. But it's really hard when he's up at the front, with his white shirt stretched over his shoulders and all she can think about is how intimately she knows every contour of his body under it. She probably just needs to get laid. The problem is, there's only one person she wants to do that with anymore, and it's none of the other girls or boys at her school anymore. It's her fucking teacher.

He tends to ignore her completely in class these days; he doesn't even call on her to read all that much. When she sticks around after class, he warms up considerably, but even then he's on his guard, like he expects her to do something.

One day at the end of the class, when she saunters up, he's got something to say about it.

He's got his back to her, wiping the chalkboard clean (She's kind of amazed that chalkboards are still in use even with all the technology available today). "You shouldn't come talk to me so often after class anymore." He turns around, face blank. "People are starting to notice."

She scoffs. "Like who?" He doesn't answer. She folds her arms. "You could have just said how much you don't like talking to me." She knows she sounds petulant. She doesn't care.

" _Plenty_ of people have walked in while we were talking, if you haven't noticed," he snaps. "Even that nurse from the hospital the very first night knew something was going on. So consider this a preemptive measure."

"Then when _am_ I supposed to talk to you?"

Bellamy says nothing.

Her hands form fists at her sides. "Come on, Bellamy. If we can't be together like how we used to be, at least let us be friends."

He closes his eyes as if in pain. "I want that, Clarke. I don't like having to do this either. But I'd rather not screw up your life again."

"And I told you, you could never screw up my life. Unless you took yourself out of it."

He goes on as if she hadn't spoken. "Besides, it's not like I'm cutting ties. You have my number."

That's true. After the prom dress shopping thing, they did more texting. It wasn't much, but it got her through weekends when she didn't see him at all. "That's not the same." Her voice comes out as a little whiny again.

"Don't be such a child, Clarke," he snaps. "I'm trying, alright?"

"A _child_?" she repeats indignantly, hands on her hips. He already looks to be regretting his word choice; his mouth opens, presumably to apologize, but she beats him to it, intending to hurt him with her next words.

She taps her finger against her chin. "You know what I was thinking about today in class?"

"Clarke," he says with gritted teeth, "I didn't mean—"

"I was thinking about which would be better." She nods at his desk. "Me bent over your desk, you fucking me from behind? Or," she goes on, taking another step forward while he breathes in sharply, "you sitting on that chair, while I sit in your lap and fuck _you_?"

He hasn't backed down from her steps, and this close up she gets the treat of watching his pupils dilate at her words— she can hardly see his irises. He's thinking about it now, she can tell. Her grinding down onto him right here with her legs wrapped around his waist. Or maybe how he could so easily turn her around against the solid wooden surface of his desk right now and...

Clarke brushes her fingers down the rigid line of his arm, tilting her head. He barely seems to be breathing. "What do you think?"

While she's still leaning in, he suddenly seizes her by the waist.

But instead of hauling her closer, he turns her around so she's facing towards the door. "I think we'll call it a draw," he says roughly behind her, and gives her a little push. His voice is near guttural. "Now get out of my classroom."

—

Bellamy's self-restraint is becoming entirely too inconvenient. She can't believe she's doing this on a regular basis now, going to school and getting sexually frustrated, going home at night to lie in her bed, pleasuring herself and panting his name muffled against her pillow so no one will hear.

The only thing that gives her any satisfaction is knowing that she can drive him up the wall in the exact same way. She knows it because one day she shows up wearing a pink top and plaid dark skirt, near replicas of the outfit she'd worn the first time she'd met him— and blown him— in Berlin.

When she walks into his classroom, he drops the stack of quizzes he was handing out.

She places a sucker between her lips, making sure to pop it through her cheek at him, and winks as she sashays to her seat. She watches him bend down to grab the papers he'd dropped, the way his shoulders rise and fall in a measured way, like he's taking deep breaths.

And that night, she's sure she's not alone in her routine.

—

Clarke turns eighteen on parent teacher night, coincidentally.

She shoots him a text that afternoon in class that says _How about a deal? I'll stop doing inappropriate things if you say nice stuff about me to my parents tonight_.

Later that evening, while her family is eating cake before they head out, her phone buzzes with his reply.

 _Technically I never said I wanted you to stop_.

"Who's 'Bellamy', honey?" Her mom asks, peeking over her shoulder. Clarke clamps her open mouth shut and pockets her phone immediately.

"Friend from school."

"As long as he's not related to that prick Ryan, he's an improvement," her father booms from behind his tablet. Clarke rolls her eyes. In any case, she somehow doubts her father would find her teacher to be a better match.

As is tradition, Clarke comes with her parents to the event. Bellamy ends up being the first teacher they have an appointment with.

He opens his door, all pleasantry. "Mr. and Mrs. Griffith? Pleasure to meet you," he says in his deep voice, and fixes his polite charmer smile on her mother. Clarke's pretty sure her mom's eyes go wide for a second before going back to normal. "Will Clo be joining us?" He glances at Clarke, almost dismissive in the gesture, but Clarke knows it's all for show. In the half second he's looking at her, his eyes sweep down her form, taking in the dress she was wearing for her birthday party.

"No," Clarke coughs into her fist. It sounds extremely awkward to be in a room with both her ex-husband and her parents who are oblivious to the fact.

"Suit yourself," Bellamy says, a trace of humour in his words like he knows exactly what she's thinking.

As soon as the door shuts she immediately regrets her decision. He'd never actually agreed to her proposal to say nice things about her.

She's doing well in his class, but what if he says something about her behaviour? God, he _would_ do that, make some offhand comment that leaves her parents vaguely confused, just to keep her on her toes—

The door opens again and she jumps, glancing at the clock. "Already?" But it's already been five minutes, she just hadn't been paying attention.

Her parents walk out, and another couple walks in to speak to Bellamy.

"Don't look so nervous," her dad tells her. "There just wasn't much to say. It was all good things he said."

Her mom hugs her. "I'm proud of you, honey."

They go off to meet with her next teacher and Clarke chooses to remain where she's sitting under the hopes that she'll run into Bellamy again.

Twenty minutes later, she gets her wish. The last set of parents leave Bellamy's class and he pokes his head out the door. "Did the Martinez's come by?"

"Nope," Clarke says. He looks at her for a moment where she's sitting on the floor, leaning against the row of lockers with her legs stretched out.

"I like your dress," he says, gruff.

She looks down at it— it's lavender, with swirling patterns on it, and the silky material stretches modestly past her knees. She glances back at him just in time to see a trace of something dark in his eyes. He's always a little contradictory when it comes to what he wants from their relationship, and she suspects it's because he's more conflicted than he tries to let on. It's nice to know she still has that power over him, after all this time. "Thank you," she replies primly, smoothing the fabric over her legs.

Bellamy leans against the doorframe and fishes in his pocket. He looks up and down the hallway before saying, "I got you something for your birthday."

Her jaw drops. "You knew it was my birthday?"

He gives her a look that plainly says he thinks that question is insulting and produces his gift from his pocket, leaning down to drop it in her outstretched hand.

She opens her fingers. It's a charm bracelet. Classy in its simplicity— nothing fancy or expensive-looking, but it's pretty, with shining, swirling pendants dangling from it. And as she notes, it has blue accents exactly the colour of her new prom dress.

"Thought it could go with your dress," he voices her thoughts as she continues staring at it stupidly.

She finally gets her vocal cords to work. "It will. But Bellamy, you didn't _have_ to—" She shakes her head. "I didn't ask for this."

"I know you didn't. I think it's called a surprise."

She stands up and whacks him in the arm and he huffs a laugh, falling back a step. "When's _your_ birthday?" she demands.

He rubs a hand over his jaw. "September."

She pouts. She'll be gone to university by that time. "I'm going to get you something early then."

"There's nothing I need."

She snorts. "I'm sure I can think of something." She slips the bracelet on and stretches her hand out, admiring the look of it against her skin.

"I like your parents," he says suddenly, out of the blue. "Although they look nothing like you."

She smiles, taking the bracelet off and tucking it in her purse. "That's because I'm adopted."

His eyes widen a bit. She enjoys his surprise. "I didn't know," he says at last.

She shrugs, shouldering her purse. "It's not a big deal."

"There's so much I don't know about you," he says, and her eyes snap back to his. His eyes are wide, sad suddenly. "I wish I could."

Her heart aches for him— for _them_ , and she reaches out to take his hand. Before she can, a pair of parents walks around the corner, and they both step away smoothly.

"Mr. and Mrs. Martinez?" Bellamy asks, professional.

"That's right," says the man.

Bellamy backs into his classroom again without giving Clarke a second glance. "Come on in. Lots of things to talk about. Especially how your son keeps calling me 'dude' no matter how much I..."

The door shuts and Clarke, knowing she probably won't get another opportunity to talk to him tonight, walks off down the hall to find her parents.

—

Prom is the first weekend of May for their school. Clarke and her girlfriends get their hair done at a salon, where Clarke asks her hairdresser to take a picture of her intricate updo so she can send it to Bellamy.

 _How much hairspray did you put on that thing?_ He simply replies, and she smiles to herself.

A little while later, she's all primped up and ready to go, and slips Bellamy's bracelet on her wrist. As she'd suspected, it complements the dress perfectly. And having his gift with her makes it feel a little like she at least has a piece of him with her tonight.

The prom is being held at a fancy hotel; when her entourage gets there, however, she's shocked to see Bellamy himself leaning against the wall outside, talking to another teacher. It takes her a moment to realize he must be one of the volunteers supervising tonight, not that it'll make any difference. The prom is really just a pre-party for all the decidedly _un_ supervised ones taking place later.

Surrounded by a gaggle of friends, she can't go to him, but his eyes find hers as if he sensed her, and he pauses in conversation. He's across the room, separated from her by distance, noise, expectations and throngs of people but in that moment, with his lips parting slightly like he's just seen her for the first time, it's like he's the only other person there. She holds her breath, enthralled as his gaze goes down and up her body at a leisurely pace. It feels like he's touching her everywhere.

At least, until someone elbows her side and she jerks away to glare at Queenie.

"My bad," Queenie says, elbowing her again. "But look, doesn't Grace look hot tonight? I swear, I'm gonna ask her to dance. If she doesn't get the hint then, I'm giving up."

"I hope she says yes," Clarke replies distantly. At least someone should get the romance they want tonight. When she shifts her gaze back to where Bellamy was, he's gone, and she feels a little disappointed before shaking herself. She's supposed to be enjoying this; being young, being with her friends. He would want her to.

So she does.

—

She goes in and for hours she dances, talks to friends and jokes and laughs and she truly has a lot of fun. And yet, despite all that, there _still_ feels like something is missing.

At some point, after a particularly energetic song, she slips off her heels and goes off to find a drink in the lobby outside the dance, and that's where she finds Bellamy, leaning against the wall and watching her.

"Having fun?" she asks him, a little out of breath as she fills her glass.

"I can think of more fun things to do."

She pauses; their eyes connect. His aren't giving anything away. There's a beat where she wonders if he's wishing for the same thing she's been wishing all night, and then it's over. She figures she must have misconstrued his meaning and just looks away, wishing someone would just spike the punch already.

She leans against the wall next to him and sips her drink, surveying the lobby. It's more or less secluded save for the photo table to the side, where props are set for use by the high schoolers to take as many silly pictures as they please.

Clarke watches a group of friends hold masks to their faces and put on silly expressions for the camera. One of them kisses their date before the photo is taken; a lump grows in her throat watching them laugh freely together, and she turns to Bellamy, who's watching the same thing she is with a faraway look to his eyes.

"Why can't we have that?" Clarke whispers.

His gaze flicks back to hers. "We'll have it."

"But not now."

"I told you, later. I'll marry you the day after you graduate with your degree, if that's what you want," he attempts a smile.

But it doesn't help; Clarke feels tears prick at her eyes. That feels like too long to wait. She's tried valiantly to be fine with their situation, but she really, really can't anymore. "That's what we _think_. But before we can I just know something's going to come along and kill us like always and we have to start over." He stays silent, and to her own horror a tear or two slip out from her eyes. She wipes them away as daintily as she can without ruining her makeup. "Every day I have to act like you're not my favourite person in the world, and it's torture."

His eyelashes sweep down, and his jaw clenches. But he says nothing.

She turns to him, eyes shining, begging him to validate her feelings. "Bellamy, doesn't it hurt?"

And then his hand is there, on her cheek, thumbing away her tears, and her breath hitches. They're in the lobby. Even though no one is paying them attention, anyone _could_ see them. If they just glanced towards their corner, they'd see a teacher wiping away his student's tears with a slow and delicate touch.

His eyes are shiny too, when he retracts his hand. "It's agony," he admits softly.

She squeezes her eyes shut. More hot tears spill out.

He makes a soft sound. "Don't cry." Now both hands are on her cheeks, forcing her to look at him. "Tonight is supposed to be happy. You're supposed to be happy at prom." He sounds desperate.

"I don't want to be happy at prom," she cries. "I want to be happy with _you_."

Bellamy closes his eyes and sighs, taking a step back from her. "Someone's watching us."

She jerks her head to the side, heart leaping. But it's just the photographer, who, with no one else in his lineup, is watching the two of them curiously. Maybe he's simply wondering if they want a photo. Or maybe he's not. Either way, their moment is over.

"Wash your face before you go back in," Bellamy says.

"I'm not going back in."

"Clarke." She hates that Bellamy sounds as sad as she feels. She hates that it's probably her bad mood that's doing it to him. And she hates that she can't stop herself anyway.

She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand. "I don't want to be here anymore." And she certainly doesn't want to go to any of the damn after-parties.

"You're leaving? Do you have a ride?"

She starts to say yes but pauses. She had agreed to go with Queenie, but Queenie is probably planning to stay longer, and go to a party after. She'd take Clarke home in a heartbeat if she asked, but she knows that's not what the other girl wants to do.

He sees her hesitation. "I'll drive you home."

Clarke's surprised by the offer but doesn't let it show. There must be some risk involved in that, isn't there? But he seems fine with it.

Well, she's not looking a gift horse in the mouth, so she just nods instead, and he says, "I'll bring my car around the back. Be there in five." Then he disappears, and Clarke turns back into the prom to find Queenie.

She feels very lucky about the dim lighting; her red-rimmed eyes aren't immediately noticeable. She searches around the room for Queenie and sees her and Grace kissing in the corner.

She feels her lips turn up into a smile. Looks like the happy ending happened for those two after all. Instead of interrupting, she shoots Queenie a text that she's leaving with someone else and walks out to meet Bellamy round the back.

As soon as she gets in the car with him, she feels like she could stay here forever. It smells like him in here. She sinks into the leather of the seat and sighs.

"I'm hungry," she announces.

He side-eyes her, reading her intentions. "No."

She pouts.

—

"Fries with that?" the drive through guy asks. Bellamy glances at Clarke.

She shrugs. "Sure."

After they get their orders, the smell of fast food overwhelming in the small car, Clarke's stomach rumbles. She's apparently even more hungry that she thought, so she reaches into her bag eagerly. His hand wraps around her wrist, and she looks up, startled.

His eyes are on the road. "No eating in my car." Her mouth drops in indignation, at least until he adds, "Let's go to my place."

She shuts her mouth.

His place turns out to be a good half hour drive away from the hotel the prom was at, in a small, two level house in an urban neighbourhood.

She takes it in— it's a little shabby. There's an overgrown flower bed out front, and the gate looks rusted. The white paint on the side of the house peels slightly.

And yet, all she can do in that moment is imagine herself living here in a few years.

She can imagine walking up this cracked path to the front door every day, greeting him there with a kiss. Or maybe they'd sit out front in the summer in lawn chairs, clinking together their glasses of lemonade as well as their wedding rings. Maybe she would help him spruce the place up— although, sadly not too extravagantly. Bellamy's stashes from his pirate days have apparently all been discovered by now, as he'd told her in a rather disgruntled way a few months back.

But still. Just the prospect of living here with him is altogether thrilling, and with that thought in mind this neighbourhood looks like heaven.

Despite that, as he parks in the driveway, she pokes her head out the window and comments, "Love what you've done with the place."

He shoots her a wry look. "It's not mine. It's my brother's."

"Your _brother's—_ "

"I live with him," Bellamy explains. "When I got this job and had to move here, he offered me his guest bedroom as long as I paid half the rent." He pauses to look at her, mistaking her shock as concern. "Don't worry, he won't be a problem. You'll see."

"I didn't know you had a brother," she gets out. God, he's right. There's so much about each other they still don't know.

"He's a damn idiot," Bellamy says fondly, pulling the keys out of the ignition. "Which reminds me." He reaches into the back and produces a plain black hoodie. "Put this on over your prom dress. I don't want to make it obvious I've been cradle robbing."

"You're not _cradle robbing_ ," she huffs as she obeys. "I'm eighteen." But he's already getting out of the car with the fast food and walking over to her side.

He opens her door and she steps out, zipping up his sweater to her nose. It's entirely too comfortable and smells exactly like his skin, which she tries not to think about. It also completely hides the fanciest part of her dress. With just the bottom tulle showing, it could almost pass as a fancy dinner dress.

They walk up the steps to the front door and he lets them into what looks like a living room. There's a hologram TV display on the opposite wall, and there's a dark haired man sitting on the couch watching it, pointing his finger at the display to change the channel.

"God, you're home finally," he says. "And you brought food. The most helpful thing you've done your entire life, little brother." He twists in his seat; he's got the same colouring as Bellamy, albeit without the freckles and with a thinner face and scruffy-looking beard. He's wearing a sweatshirt and baggy pants. His eyes fasten on Clarke. "Never mind. You didn't bring food for _me_ at all, did you?"

"You can have mine if you're so hungry, jackass," Bellamy shoots back. "But from the smell of it, you've already ordered pizza." He steps forward and— making Clarke's heart jump— takes her hand in front of him. "This is Clarke, a friend of mine. Clarke, this is my brother Boris."

"Nobody calls me that, _Bradbury_ , so shut the fuck up," his brother grumbles. He waves at Clarke. "Uh, nice to meet you. I'm Rick." Rick looks between the two of them. "Are you two together?"

"No," they both say in unison. Rick stares and then shrugs. He turns back to the TV.

"I'm not sure why I pretended to care, right there," he comments, taking a bite from a slice of pizza on the table and reaching for a set of virtual reality goggles. "Hey, you guys want to play?"

"What's the game?" Clarke asks.

He tells her. She frowns. It's one of those first person shooter games, but ever since she regained her memories she's lost her appreciation for them.

"Pretty sure we have MarioKart around here somewhere," Bellamy suggests, and Rick grumbles before walking over to a box in the corner to rummage around for it.

"What does he do?" Clarke whispers to Bellamy. "As a job, I mean."

From the looks of him, she wouldn't have been surprised if Bellamy told her he didn't have a job at all, but he doesn't. "He's a lawyer. Specializes in child protection."

She blinks.

"Yeah," he says, a sardonic twist to his mouth now. "I know."

"Found it!" Rick yells, holding up the game, and after putting on their headsets they get to playing. Clarke had honestly forgotten how fucking engaging the game could be.

"Yes!" Clarke screeches, jumping up and down as she finally gets her little wagon in front of Bellamy's, as his slides out of position due to a banana peel she'd strategically thrown down. "Take _that_!"

Bellamy gives her a playful push on the back. "Shut up. You keep breaking my concentration."

"Do I need to remind you you're battling over eighth place?" Rick asks. They both ignore him.

When Clarke ends up locking in seventh place for the third time in a row, she drops her wheel, throws down her goggles and turns her head to grin at Bellamy, who's scowling on the couch. "Don't be a sore loser."

"He's been that way since birth," Rick drawls from his armchair. Bellamy throws his goggles to the side even though he hasn't even finished the race yet and reaches forward suddenly, arms wrapping around Clarke's waist and dragging her into his lap. She's so surprised that she's completely caught unawares when he starts tickling her.

"Fuck!" she gasps, seizing up in his lap. She tries to push his hands away, but he ends up scooping up her wrists in one of his so she's helpless to his attacks. "Stop it!" He's relentless, though, and he knows all her ticklish spots exactly, so she ends up falling sideways onto the couch giggling uncontrollably. He follows, pressing his smiling laugh into her neck. She dimly hears Rick mutter something under his breath and get up to grab more pizza.

Bellamy's voice rumbles against her pulse point. "I'll stop if you admit you cheated."

She shrieks, "Cheating is the _point_ of MarioKart—"

"So you admit it."

"Okay, fine, stop— I'll do anything!" she wheezes, tears coming from her eyes now in laughter.

He stops tickling to squeeze her side. "Anything, huh?" His head lifts so he can look her in the eye. His hair is messy over his forehead, cheeks red from exertion and eyes glittering with energy. She knows she looks the same.

His panting breaths puff against her lips in time with hers, and she becomes aware he's got her wrists pinned above her head and one knee slotted between hers. His eyes turn liquid dark as if he's realized the same. Subconsciously, she spreads legs further apart, arches up a bit.

Bellamy licks his lips. They're so close to hers. She could surge up right now and kiss him if she wanted to. And he looks like he wants her to. Badly.

"I thought we had a rule of no making out in the common areas," Rick complains behind them. "I have to live here too, you know."

Bellamy blinks and then releases her wrists, clambering off her. "We weren't—"

Rick cuts him off. "Yeah, whatever, little brother. Do you guys want to play another game? Or should I say, lose another game?"

Clarke, still on the couch, watches Bellamy glance at the clock. "It's nearly midnight. Jesus, we've been here nearly two hours." He mumbles that last part to himself.

"I'll take that as a no," Rick muses, ambling off for the bathroom.

"It's okay," Clarke says eagerly, sitting up when they're alone in the room. "I told my parents to expect me around midnight at earliest."

His lips twitch. "And they're okay with that."

"I might have asked them while they were distracted."

Bellamy shakes his head ruefully. "Of course you did." He studies her, and she self consciously smooths down her hair, which must be a rat's nest after everything from tonight. She doesn't even want to think about her makeup.

"I'm taking you home," he says abruptly. She sighs. Game over.

—

Despite that, it's with a happy glow inside that she rides home with Bellamy. And when he parks on the other side of the street from her house, she doesn't want to get out.

He clears his throat. "I'd walk you to the door, but…"

"I know," she says softly. "You're my teacher, and all."

The ensuing silence is sticky. Back to reality. But her own words remind her of something, and she bolts up straight.

"Wait!" she says excitedly. "I just remembered I got you a gift."

He blinks and then half-laughs. "It's not my birthday yet."

"Does it look like I care?" She tugs on his arm. "Come with me while I go get it." When he looks up at her house, expression filled with trepidation, she adds, "I'll go through the back door. My parents won't notice. You can wait in the backyard."

He fights with himself for only a half second before unbuckling his seatbelt.

They sneak around the back, where the grass is cut to perfection and crickets chirp in the near-darkness. Bellamy looks around, taking in the neatly cut grass, the tall house, the trampoline, and the neighbours' white picket fence. It's a nice neighbourhood, far nicer than Rick's. But somehow she likes his more.

She can overhear her parents watching some movie downstairs as she slips inside her house to grab his gift, catching a glimpse of herself in her dresser mirror as she does. Her hair has fallen out of her updo, messy around her shoulders, and her eyeshadow is smudged. But somehow— she pauses— she still thinks she looks prettier than she did when she left the house.

After a moment she gets it— it's that sparkle in her eye, the contentedness clearly visible. It wasn't quite there before. She's certain it's been the last two hours that did it.

He's still waiting outside when she returns, leaning against a pillar. He pushes off when he sees her, and one eyebrow raises as Clarke holds out her gift.

He stares for a second and finally cracks a grin, shaking his head as he accepts it.

"A 'World's Best Teacher' mug? Really?"

"It's just the truth," Clarke replies, cheeky.

A smile still on his lips, he turns it over in his hands. "If you think this is going to get you extra credit—"

"Of course not," Clarke cuts him off. She knows he's joking, but she finds herself growing serious, wanting him to understand her feelings. "Seriously, Bellamy, you're a great teacher. I always thought so, even before I got my memories back. I can tell you love it." He flushes at the praise, looking down, but she's not done. "And I'd never want to take it away from you or— or jeopardize your reputation. I'm sorry for everything I did at school. I was childish, you're right."

He rubs his thumb over the edge of the mug thoughtfully. She plunges on.

"So I'm going to go to university in the fall, and you're going to teach, and one day we'll have everything. Maybe it'll be in this life, maybe it'll be in another one, but until then, _this_ is everything."

Bellamy finally looks up. His expression is unreadable as he holds up the 'WORLD'S BEST TEACHER' side of the mug to her. "I'm not sure I really deserve this title after this."

"After wha—"

He kisses her.

Bellamy crowds Clarke against the pillar he was leaning against a moment ago, caging her in with his arms, and he kisses her. In a different lifetime, a different world, he would have taken advantage of her open lips to thrust his tongue in her mouth, but instead he just captures her bottom lip in both of his.

Her breath stutters in her throat. Bellamy's patient, letting go of her lip briefly and then leaning in to peck her lips again before she gets with the program. She wraps her arms around his neck and this time she meets him in the middle, and then their lips are sliding together as familiar as they've always been, him tilting his head to one side and her to the other. She wants to cry at how good it feels. How good _he_ feels with his body pressed against her body and his warm mouth moving with hers.

They could go on forever like this, really, so it's a sound that breaks them apart. Clarke tenses until she realizes it's the booming sound of her own father's laughter, distant from the living room somewhere in the house.

She looks at Bellamy, panting like he's pulled all the breath from her lungs and replaced it with his own. He runs his hand down her ratty looking hair, thumb brushing against her mascara stained cheek, and stares at her like he thinks it's her most beautiful look of the night.

And then he exhales shakily and smiles. "Good night, Clarke." His voice soft and deep simultaneously in the quiet summer night.

"Good night," she manages to croak back, and then he's gone, leaving her leaning against the pillar of her house with her fingers pressed against her lips, and the ghost of his there.

It's five minutes before she realizes he didn't ask for his hoodie back.

—

She washes it over the weekend in preparation to return to him on Monday, but he's not there.

It's odd. He's never taken a day off in all the time she's known him. She even remembers a time he'd shown up with a cold, deadpanning, "In case anyone was wondering, today's class is sponsored by Tylenol and Halls," and everyone had laughed.

But there's a substitute teacher waiting in the classroom when Clarke comes in that day, so it gives her pause.

"Hello, class," the older, grey-haired woman at the front of the room says, peering over her glasses at them all. "I'll be teaching today, so let's get started on—" She pauses, noticing Clarke's hand is raised in the air. "Yes, dear?"

"Where's Mr. Blake?" Clarke asks.

The sub frowns, looking down at her notebook. "I wasn't told anything about your regular teacher's situation. Luckily, he has very neat notes, so there hopefully won't be too much of a transition period today." She smiles kindly at Clarke, but she can't seem to smile back. There's a feeling of foreboding in her stomach.

The sub starts talking but Clarke doesn't hear a word. He's probably just sick, right? Maybe he's got a bad enough cold that he finally had to stay home.

Just to make sure, though, she pulls out her phone and pulls up her conversation with him, intending to text him. Before she can, though, her phone is whisked straight from her hand.

"No devices in my classroom, dear," the sub says sternly.

"I need that," Clarke says without thinking.

"Not in class, you don't," the sub replies. "You may get it back at the end of the day, from the office."

Clarke slumps in her seat for the rest of the class, mind elsewhere.

At the end of the day, she practically runs to the office for her phone and after a gentle chastising from the secretary, it's handed back to her. She texts Bellamy right there, a simple _Everything ok?_

She stands there waiting for a response for God knows how long, and she's only moved when the secretary says awkwardly, "Um, honey, there's someone behind you in line."

Clarke jerks into movement and goes home. Every time her phone buzzes, she dives for it. But it's never Bellamy.

Maybe his phone is dead.

Maybe _he's_ dead.

The second thought comes to her mind that night, while she's staring up at the ceiling, and she presses her face against her pillow in an effort not to cry. She knows she's overreacting, being irrational. He has his own life, too. He doesn't need to tell her everything he has going on.

The next day, she searches for Bellamy's car in the lot. Her heart plummets when she realizes it's not there. Peeking into his classroom, she sees a substitute teacher, different from yesterday. When she asks him, he doesn't seem to have a clue what's going on either.

With increasing desperation, she exits the classroom and spots Ms. Altavilla walking down the hall in her black heels.

"Ms. Altavilla!" she yells, causing several heads, including the teacher's, to turn curiously. Clarke doesn't care, just picks up the pace to catch up with the art teacher.

"What can I do for you, Clo?" Ms. Altavilla says with a smile.

"Where's Mr. Blake?" Clarke asks, and watches the teacher's smile slide right off her face. "You know, don't you?" she presses wildly, taking a step further.

Ms. Altavilla looks a little uneasy. "Well, I'm not sure that's a matter to be discussed with the students. Confidentiality and all."

Clarke struggles for coherency with her next words. "They'd tell us if he died, wouldn't they?"

" _What_?" Ms. Altavilla says, now looking shocked. "Of course he hasn't died, heaven forbid. Clo, who put that thought in your head?"

Instead of answering Clarke bursts into tears out of relief, right there in the hallway. The first warning bell has already rung, so there aren't many people around; those that are, look her way curiously. But she couldn't care less. He's _alive_. As long as he's alive, everything will be okay.

Meanwhile, Ms. Altavilla puts a hand on her shoulder, bewildered. "Clo, dear, what's wrong? Are you alright?"

Clarke shudders in her attempts to rein in sobs, straightening her shoulders and wiping her eyes. "I— I'm sorry. I don't know what's wrong with me." She closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, calming herself.

Ms. Altavilla is silent for a moment before saying, "I have to get to my class, but I can assure you that Mr. Blake is in good health, Clo. He might not be here for the next little while, though." She pauses. "I strongly advise you not to get so attached to your teachers. It's trouble all around." And then she leaves Clarke alone, staring down the hallway as a different, new kind of pit settles in her pit.

What is that supposed to mean?

There's only one horrible conclusion Clarke can really think of in that moment, and that's… they've been _found out_.

Stunned, she sinks into a sitting position against the row of lockers, barely hearing the bell that announces her tardiness to class. Her mind is working very fast. Is this why Bellamy's gone so suddenly and isn't answering her messages? He's in disciplinary hearings? Did someone see them kiss?

Did someone see them stand a little too close at prom?

Did someone see them leave together?

Did someone simply see how much time they spent together all the time?

There's a myriad of ways their true relationship could have been witnessed. They haven't been careful at all. The realization has her frozen in horror, staring blankly ahead.

But _no_ , she thinks firmly to herself. If they found out about her and Bellamy, surely they'd drag her into it as well? Surely they'd question her about it?

Surely.

 _It's only been two days since he's been gone_ , an ugly voice in her whispers. _Maybe they haven't gotten to that stage in the proceedings yet_.

Clarke sits there until the bell rings again, and then, when people begin filtering into the hall, she picks herself up again and goes to the washroom instead to sit in a stall until she's collected herself enough to leave the school.

Her phone's blowing up with messages from friends, but again not a single one from Bellamy. She gets her mom to pick her up from school, citing hormones as the reason for her distress, and she curls up in bed while her mom calls the school to excuse her absence.

"Honey?" her mom asks at the door later in quiet voice. "Is everything okay?"

No. "Yes." After a moment, when Clarke says nothing more, her mom leaves. Clarke closes her eyes. If she gets Bellamy fired, or thrown in jail, she'll never forgive herself. She stares at her phone, willing it to light up with his name, but it never does. Eventually, she falls asleep.

—

Bellamy isn't there the next day, or the day after either. Clarke finally snaps at one point and takes her mom's car to Rick's house. But the lights are all out, and when she knocks, no one answers, so she just goes home.

She's a zombie going through her classes. No one seems to know what's going on with him, although there are plenty of theories.

She's stirring her soup-in-a-cup listlessly Friday at lunch when her friends veer onto the topic of Mr. Blake.

"I heard he was caught selling drugs, dude."

"I heard he finally fucking snapped and left town."

"That's stupid, why would he snap?"

"Why not? He has to see your name on the attendance sheet every damn day—"

Clarke stands up and all her friends look up. "I'm going to the washroom," she lies. Without waiting for a response, she turns on the heel.

Queenie catches up. "What's up, Clo?"

"I told you, I just don't feel well—"

"That's bullshit," Queenie exclaims, grabbing her arm and forcing her to stop. "You've been like this all week. Is it because of Mr. Blake?"

Clarke can't help herself from glancing away. Queenie releases her arm, taking a step back.

"Shit. It is, isn't it?"

Clarke resumes walking. "Go away, Queenie. I want to be alone."

"Shit," Queenie repeats, catching up with her again. "You're into him. And not just as a crush."

Clarke's throat feels tight, and all she wants is to get away. Everyone's faces are just a blur as she makes her way around the lunch crowd, Queenie in tow.

"Oh my god, was he into _you_? I always kind of thought he was, you know," Queenie marvels at the thought, and then apparently a new one. "Oh my _god_ , were you guys— is that why he's not he—"

Clarke snaps. She wheels around and screams, "Can you shut the _fuck_ up, Queenie!"

Conversations pause all around them. Queenie's eyes go round with shock and hurt. Clarke regrets her words instantly, but before she can apologize the other girl has backed up and walked back down the hallway.

Clarke numbly turns and keeps walking, dumping her cup of soup in the nearest trash can. She can't be worried about her friendship with Queenie; she'll apologize later. Right now she's barely keeping herself together.

She's headed for the bathroom when in her peripheral vision, she sees Bellamy's classroom door is open. That gives her pause; she'd seen the substitute head off to the lunchroom earlier, and there's still twenty minutes left of lunch.

Changing her path, she stops in front of the doorway and there, slumped at his desk and looking absolutely exhausted, is _Bellamy_.

She thinks she makes some sort of sound, because he looks up from where he was staring blankly at his thin computer screen. His haggard expression transforms once he sees her, and he rises from his seat.

Clarke kicks the door shut with her foot, sealing them in alone, and launches herself at him.

She's intending to tackle him in a hug, but her footsteps halt before she can get there. She hovers awkwardly in front of him. He looks confused too, hands outstretched and ready to receive her hug, but he lowers them.

"Clarke," he says lowly, "I'm so sorry I didn't get your messages, my phone ran out of battery and I _just_ saw —"

"At first I thought you were dead," Clarke chokes out, shutting him up.

His eyes widen.

"Then I thought the school found out— found out about us. I thought I'd ruined your life." Her voice cracks.

He's shaking his head halfway through her sentence. "Clarke, you could never ruin my life. You've only improved it."

Clarke bursts into tears for the second time that week.

He immediately tries to envelop her in his arms, making soothing noises, but she pushes him away, stepping back.

"Get off me," she sobs into her hands. "I'll get you in trouble."

" _Clarke_ ," he whispers helplessly. "I'm fine, everything's fine. I'm sorry for not telling you."

Clarke can't seem to stop crying; she's shaking with all the emotion she's been repressing all week and the relief that threatens to overwhelm her now.

He again tries to touch her, just to pry her hands off her face. Once she can see his soft expression, his lovely brown eyes gentle for her, his skin a little pale from exhaustion, her mind changes, and all she can do right then is step right into his arms and hug him.

"I was so _worried_ ," she hiccups, muffled into his chest. "I couldn't think about anything except what might have happened to you." He's silent, stroking her hair. She lifts her head. "What _did_ happen to you?"

"My brother got shot in Langley because of a court case. It was touch and go for a while. When I heard, I dropped everything, including my phone charger." He smiles self-deprecatingly at the end of that sentence, but all she hears is the first part.

"Rick? Is he okay?" she asks urgently.

"He will be, now," he replies softly.

She runs her hands down his chest. "Are _you_ okay?"

He fixes his tired eyes on her. "Once I get a cup of coffee, yeah."

She wipes her tears away with the back of her hand, starting to feel herself calm down. "You shouldn't have even come today. You should have gone home and slept."

His lips twitch up again at her tone. He tucks a piece of her hair behind her ear. "I'm fine." His eyes flicker to the closed door, and Clarke realizes she's been hugging him too long. Someone could walk in at any moment. So she backs up a bit, and he falls into his chair with a sigh.

"So many damn emails," he mutters at his screen. She watches him tug at his tie and feels incredible fondness rise in her chest.

She leans against the front of his desk. "I love you," she's about to say, but then the PA system crackles on.

"Code black."

Conversations in the hallway pause.

The voice sounds again, grave. "I repeat, code black. This is not a drill. Report to your next period classrooms."

"Code black?" Clarke asks in a hushed voice.

"Bomb threat," Bellamy says slowly, and then he's in action, striding over to the door and wrenching it open, barking at students in the hallway to get inside.

Clarke stays where she is. If there's a bomb, she's not going anywhere away from his side. He doesn't try to make her, either.

The phone on the wall rings once the classroom is filled with students. Bellamy goes to pick it up. Clarke watches as he listens to the voice on the other end, and his expression turn to ice.

"What's wrong?" A student asks, voice quavering.

Bellamy doesn't answer right away. Doesn't even blink. He's staring at the phone, and she realizes after a moment he's staring in horror.

"Mr. Blake?" Another student says. His voice is high-pitched. Bellamy's lack of response is scaring them all. "What's going on? Is the threat gone?"

Bellamy's expression changes. She watches his gaze flicker from the window, the clear skies, back to the class. He looks like he's debating even telling them. "I don't know," he lies. "They'll call us back."

Why does he lie? She wonders.

The rest of the class seems reassured by this, and they go back to quietly murmuring amongst themselves. Clarke marches right up to Bellamy and grabs his arm.

"Why didn't you tell them the truth?" she hisses. "What's going on?"

He looks at her, straight-on. She barely hears his response, so quiet as it is murmured only to her. "Because there's nothing we can do. There's a nuclear bomb heading for Vancouver. Less than a minute to detonation."

There's no way to respond to that sentence, really. She releases his arm, stunned.

"You're joking."

He looks grim. "I wish I was."

Now she understands why he lied. There is nothing that can be done to satisfaction in one minute. "Why?" Clarke manages to croak. "Is this war?"

"This is the end," Bellamy finally says, voice grave, and cradles her cheek. "The reason doesn't matter."

The fact that he's touching her in front of two dozen students solidifies the fact in her mind.

"We have to get out of here," Clarke whispers, numb. "We have to— get our family—"

"It's landing in half a minute," he interrupts her, and kisses her hard and fast. If anyone sees or says anything, she doesn't hear a damn thing. When he pulls away, they both only have eyes for each other. He says, "I'll see you soon."

She wants to cry again, but she just holds on, clutching his wrists. "Make it easy on both of us and just kiss me as soon as you see me in the next life."

He laughs a little, pressing his forehead against hers. "Maybe _you_ should. It didn't work out so well the first time I tried."

"Try harder," she retorts.

He closes his eyes. "For some reason I thought you'd—"

The bomb hits.

It shakes the earth, and for the one second before the blast wave reaches them, they're simply startled apart.

And the next moment, everything falls to pieces around them, and Clarke _burns_.

All she knows is the feeling of fire under her skin. She has no body; all she has is pain. There is nothing else left to feel. It's agony. She wants to die. She's going to die anyway, but this— this is torture.

And then a hand— or some semblance of it, anyway, closes around her wrist. In that moment she doesn't know anyone or anything; she just knows it's a person who could grant her relief. She tries to force her mouth open, to beg for mercy. She can't get the words out.

But whoever is there, lying in the rubble with her, seems to understand. The next moment, a sharp pinprick of pain erupts through her neck, only to quiet everything.

The waves of agony start to ebb in the next moment. She wishes she could thank whoever did it. But all she can do in that moment is die.

So she does.

—

Bellamy lies in the rubble, body halfway over hers. There's a shard of glass impaled through his arm from the window, and it's stained with both his blood and Clarke's.

He hardly has capacity to feel anything except pain. He doesn't have the strength to push the shard into his own neck, so instead he simply lies there dying; his one solace is that the woman he just killed out of mercy is going to be waiting for him somewhere.

A few minutes later, he follows her there.

 _._

 _._

 _I will love you forever; whatever happens. Until I die and after I die, and when I find my way out of the land of the dead, I'll drift about forever, all my atoms, until I find you again._ —Phillip Pullman

.

— 2149: EARTH —

.

.

"Stop!"

Her voice rings out, and he turns to look.

The girl who spoke has pale skin, with wisps of blonde hair falling out of her braid, and a stern expression on her face. He knows who she is.

"The air could be toxic," she says.

He scoffs. "If the air's toxic we're all dead anyway."

Then his sister comes out of nowhere, and he's distracted for a moment in their reunion. When Octavia leans in to hug him, he looks over her shoulder to see the blonde girl still watching him. There's something about her, he thinks, momentarily puzzled. He's got the strangest feeling like there's something he's forgetting to do right about now.

"Where's your wristband?" the girl barks, and the thought vanishes from his head to be replaced with annoyance. She's too observant.

In this lifetime, his name is Bellamy once more. And hers is Clarke. Perhaps it's a fitting cosmic joke, one neither of them will be aware of for a very long time. Right here, right now, it doesn't matter anyway.

Bellamy pulls the lever, welcoming them back to Earth.

—

The first time Bellamy _really_ sees Clarke is with Atom in the woods.

"Kill me," Atom manages to choke out, but Bellamy can't. He's frozen, unable to put the boy out of his misery, when Clarke kneels across from him and gently takes the blade from his hand.

"It's okay," she says gently to Atom, a kind expression on her face like somehow she understands his suffering. Bellamy can't do anything but watch, mesmerized, while she hums and smiles and looks like an angel on earth while she takes Atom's life away.

And it's the first time he realizes there's a lot about the princess he really doesn't know.

—

This life is a lot like their first one; they're leaders, and tend to disagree and fight each other at first. But once they decide to work together, they're in it. All the way.

Bellamy would be lying if he said he'd never thought about her in ways that weren't strictly platonic. She's beautiful, after all, although he tries hard not to admire her too obviously. She's so pretty, but the moments when she really takes his breath away are when she looks at him in that soft way she does; like she somehow believes he deserves it. Really, it's hard for him not to fall for someone who, despite everything he's done, still believes he can find redemption.

He does the same for her, of course. "It had to be done," he tells her softly over the fire, the words he knew she needed to hear but she was too guilty to ask for.

He sees the way a weight seems to come off her shoulders upon that, and he's relieved that he can grant her the same understanding she has always given him.

—

After Finn dies— Clarke's second mercy killing— they head to TonDC for war talks with Lexa and her army. At some point in their travels he and Clarke find themselves in a healer's hut of a Grounder village. Clarke is helping the healer treat a Grounder's wound. Bellamy is there simply to look after Clarke.

"You don't have to come with me," Clarke had said to him earlier. But he'd seen the exhaustion in her eyes, the dejectedness weighing her shoulders down. Somebody's got to take care of her, the way she takes care of everyone else. The way she takes care of _him_.

"It's not negotiable," he had merely retorted at the time, so now he leans against the wall of the hut and watches Clarke, bent over her patient as she stitches their wound up. She pauses for a moment to sigh and close her eyes.

"You okay?" he asks from his side of the hut.

She rubs her eyes without looking at him. "I'm just tired."

His hands itch to touch her. But after what's happened, he doubts he would really be able to comfort her. So he keeps his distance.

"You didn't have to offer to help patch him up, you know."

"Yes, I did." She leans over the table. Her back is tense. "We have to keep the peace. Helping them is part of the deal if we want to get our people out of Mount Weather." She sounds a little snappish at the end there, so he leaves the conversation at that.

A door in the room flies open, and Bellamy immediately tries to move between the entrance and Clarke.

But it's no attack— it's an old Grounder woman, hunched over and wearing a bandana over her hair. She peers at Clarke and Bellamy with beady eyes.

She shuffles inside, not taking her eyes off them. They do the same. She picks up a cloth from the wash basin and hisses at them, "Wanheda."

Bellamy blinks, unsure of what it means. She's looking between the two of them, and again addresses them, " _Wanheda_."

Clarke speaks. "I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

The healer walks in through the same door carrying supplies Clarke had asked her to fetch, and upon spotting the old woman she makes a tsking sound. "Edna, what are you doing here?"

Edna is already backing away from Clarke and Bellamy, towards the door. "I sensed them. I had to see for myself."

The healer and Edna exchange a few words in Trigedasleng, and then the older woman is gone.

"Who was that?" Clarke asks.

"She's one of our village elders," the healer replies. "Her wisdom is precious to us." She pauses. "She saw something in you two, although I couldn't understand what exactly. Some things are beyond me." She turns back to their patient briskly. "Should we get back to work?"

Clarke nods, looking thoughtful, and Bellamy goes back to his place leaning against the wall like it never happened.

He thinks about it for a long time after, though.

—

He doesn't even hear that word again until months later, when an Ice Nation soldier says the word "Wanheda."

And later, Indra tells them in the Rover that it means the Commander of Death.

He hasn't told anyone about the first time he heard the word, but he's suddenly wondering why that old woman was calling Clarke _Wanheda_ before the Mount Weather massacre had even happened.

And even more curiously, why _he_ had been included in that title, too.

—

He eventually patches things up with Clarke. Her leaving had bit at him more than he would've thought. He wishes she'd never left in the first place. Sometimes he thinks they'd be a little happier today if she didn't.

He can't ever forget the mistakes he's made. When they're in the middle of the next crisis, he keeps it together because he has to. But in those moments between crises, when he has time to breathe, he loathes it, wishes he didn't even have it. Because then he starts _thinking_.

A night in Arkadia shortly after the defeat of ALIE, he's sitting on his bed after another exhausting day of planning. For some reason or another, he's pulled out the copy of _The Iliad_ Gina had given him and he's simply staring at it when there's a knock on his door.

"It's me," Clarke's voice filters through. He debates not answering, but she knocks again, persistent, so he rises and opens it.

She takes in his expression and steps right into his space. He takes a step backward.

"You okay?" she asks him, sincere, and then her eyes fall on the book he's left on his bed. "Light reading before bed, huh?" Her tone is light and teasing.

When he doesn't smile back, her expression fades back into concern. "Bellamy, are you okay?" she repeats.

"What do you need?" he simply replies, weary as he falls back to sit on his bed.

"Nothing," Clarke admits after a pause. "I just wanted to…" she flounders, face flushing a bit, "I guess I'll just leave if you're busy, then. See you in the morning."

He snags her wrist before she can take two steps. "You can stay."

She pauses.

"Stay," he repeats. _I want you to stay_.

He can't say it that way, though. The words get stuck in his throat, but she hears them anyway, sinking beside him on the bed and picking up _The Iliad_.

She runs her thumb over the title. "This is from Mount Weather." There's a question in her voice, a bitter one.

"Gina gave it to me," he tells her.

Her hand pauses. "I heard about her. You and her were…?"

"Yeah," he replies, gruff.

There's a strange silence that hangs between them for a second.

It passes when Clarke squeezes his hand. He blinks tears away, and he can't help but tell her, "I killed her, Clarke. It was my fault."

"No it wasn't," Clarke says instantly. "You did what you thought was right. Everyone else made their decisions too. It's not all on you. Their deaths… their deaths aren't always on you, you know."

Bellamy knows she's not just talking about him. He flips his hand over so he can squeeze hers back. "Or on you," he reminds her quietly.

She looks up, eyes shiny, and nods, turning her head against his shoulder. He wraps an arm around her. He didn't know Lexa, doesn't even really understand what she and Clarke had, but he knows the pain that Clarke is feeling, and he wouldn't wish it on anyone.

And they sit there in comfortable silence for a long while, just leaning into each other, unable to escape their own darkness, but at least able to help the other see the light.

She sighs into his shoulder, and then out of nowhere she asks, "You know how big hurricanes have an eye in the middle of them?"

He glances down at her, a little puzzled. The topic seems a little random, unless maybe she's thinking about the storms that desolated Polis. "Yeah, why?"

"I was thinking about them," she says, and frowns. "I'm not sure why. It just came to me. But in the worst tropical cyclones there's an eye. In the middle of all the darkness and chaos, there's a little centre where everything is calm and light."

He's about to ask where she's going with this when Clarke lifts her head off his shoulder to fix her gaze on his. "That's what you are to me, Bellamy."

He blinks.

She touches his face with her fingers. She touches his soul with her eyes. "You're my eye in the storm."

—

They've known each other a long time when they kiss.

Maybe deep down, he always knew it would end— or rather, begin— like this. Her lips on his, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek, her sigh swallowed up by his mouth. He just always thought it'd be a moment of weakness for them. Instead it feels like a union of their strength.

Then something _happens_ , as it always does, and they're torn apart to shoulder their responsibility together.

It's later, when he's alone, that he remembers. The memories come to him slowly at first, and then all at once.

He sets out to find her immediately. She bumps into him, eyes wide. "Bellamy—"

" _Clarke—_ "

She kisses him, messy and desperate. He returns the favour ten-fold, and when his lungs burn, when he feels light-headed from lack of air, only then does he pull himself away.

"We're here," Clarke marvels, her hand running through his hair, down his face, his throat, to his chest, like she can't believe he is. "We're alive again."

They hardly pause. She backs them back into his room, releases him and turns around to shut the door.

And when she does that, Bellamy is suddenly struck with how much he _wants_ her.

He's wanted her in this life before he remembered their previous lives, of course. He's loved her so long and so deeply in this life that sometimes he could hardly breathe. But now, knowing that she has _always_ loved him back just as fiercely, he doesn't hesitate anymore. He can't even wait as long as it takes for her to turn back around. As soon as she turns the lock, he's got her pressed up against the door, kissing her neck, and she melts against it.

"I've wanted you so long," he growls against her neck, grinding against her. "Do you w—"

"After what you put me through in the last life, I want to fuck you so hard you forget your name," she hisses.

Damn. He struggles for control, pushing her hair aside and biting her ear. "I'll make it up to you." She shudders, and he feels it up the line of her body. She tries to push at him, to turn around, and he gives her just enough space to do so. She seeks his mouth again, and while they're kissing he reaches to unbutton the front of her pants. Clarke doesn't waste a second, grabbing his hand and guiding it under the material of her pants, slipping under the material of her panties so he's cupping her with his large hand.

"Yeah, you better," she pants.

He rubs his thumb over her slowly, almost apologetic, but mostly teasing. "Just tell me how you want it."

Her breath hitches at how he pushes his finger in just a little. "I want your mouth on me." Her order is a touch high-pitched. Bellamy likes her just like this, to be able to watch her head tip back, lips parting at the sensations, but now she's put that thought in his head, and he has the overwhelming urge to taste her.

He swallows past his dry throat at just the thought. "You got it," he manages, leaning in for a brief but dirty kiss that tugs at something low in his gut, makes her fingers dig into his scalp.

She backs towards his bed, and he follows, helping her tug her pants down her legs, and then she's on the mattress, thighs spread wide just for him. He clambers on with her, bracing his hands on her knees and leaning over her just a moment to absorb the gleam of excitement in her eyes. And then he gets to work.

He may not be able to see her expression while he works her up, but she urges him on with her noises, by rocking her stance wider, grinding down on his mouth and fingers. Her sounds slip up into a higher octave in time with twists of his wrist. He's just enjoying how loud she can be when they go a little muffled, and he looks up to see she stuffs her knuckles in her mouth.

He pauses to bring his free hand from her breast up to her wrist, prying her hand out from between her lips.

"None of that," he tells her, voice rough from lust. "I want to hear you."

"You want everyone else to hear me too?" she laughs, the sound a little unhinged from how close she is.

"Do I want them to hear just how good I can give it to you?" He strategically crooks his knuckles, and she keens, body shuddering against him, fluttering against his fingers. "Kind of."

She slumps against him for just a moment while he kisses up her mostly still-clothed body back up to her mouth, but she's not down for long. A minute or two into making out, her kisses lose their lazy feeling and regain their sense of purpose. She lets go of him to scoot up the bed and as he watches, she pulls her threadbare shirt and bra over her head in one fell swoop to say in her throaty voice, "Now I want them to hear how good I can give it to _you_."

He sucks in a breath as he drinks her naked body in for the first time since Berlin. She's got more scars, maybe a little more toned from the ground, but she's the same Clarke as always, really. Beautiful and _his_.

She lets him look his fill but inevitably gets impatient. She pulls at his shirt. "Clothes, off."

"Romantic as always," he replies wryly, crawling over her.

She licks a straight line up his chest once she's got his shirt off. "You like it like this." He groans, and once he's naked too, she wraps her legs around him and tugs him down.

Once he's inside her, he finds it hard to breathe at the feeling of her tight and warm around him before he gets his bearings. And even though she drives him crazy with lust with the way she tosses her head back with her eyes half-lidded, fonder feelings rise to the surface too. This girl is inside his heart just as much as he's inside her body. "Yeah," he agrees gently. "I like you just like this."

—

"Bellamy," she says afterwards in a soft voice.

"Mhmm." His eyes are closed. She's lying on top of him and playing with his hair, the way she used to, the way that calms them both when they're anxious.

"If one of us dies," she whispers, "Can we agree that the other should keep going?"

Reluctantly, he opens his eyes. She looks incredibly vulnerable right then. "Why are you asking me this, Clarke?"

She looks down, tracing a finger down the line of his arm. "Because our people need us," she whispers. Swallows. "And I love them, just as much as I love you."

He draws her closer, and she leans her head against the junction between his neck and shoulder. "I think that what you're asking was always the plan," he whispers back. "We don't abandon our people."

That's who they've always been, since the time they were king and queen of a now forgotten land. At their core, they have not changed.

And they don't tell anyone about what they've found about themselves. In some ways, it just doesn't matter. There's no noticeable change in who they are. They were Bellamy and Clarke before, and they are Bellamy and Clarke after.

For the first time since their original lifetime, they've had the opportunity to fall in love with each other slowly, naturally, so their dynamic doesn't really change when they remember. Some things are different, of course. They share inside jokes nobody else understands. Like one day when they separate for a mission and he bops his nose against her and whispers, "Don't die," and she half-smiles and replies, "I won't if you don't."

Or the time he finds himself idly whittling away a piece of wood with a dagger, and she catches him and they share a look.

"That one looks better than the one you gave Roman," she whispers to him, and a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"I've had a thousand years to practice."

It's not always fun to reminisce.

Like when someone not paying attention almost hits Bellamy with the Rover backing up, and Clarke can't stop shaking for hours afterward, even after he peppers her entire body with kisses, he can see she's far away in Berlin.

There's the time they're meeting with a Grounder clan for trade talks and he sees what looks like a gigantic wooden cross on the ground, perhaps a leftover relic from Polis, and his gut twists.

Clarke sees it too, but her face is turned away so she doesn't see his visceral reaction. "I still can't believe you married Jane after she got me killed." It's teasing, not accusing at all, but he takes it as one because this is a sore topic. There were a lot of factors that led to him going along with their pre-set wedding.

"You fell in love with Lexa after she forced you to kill Finn," he points out instead. "Not to mention abandoned us to die at the Mountain."

She's silent and turns around. "It was more complicated than you're making it sound." He gives her a look and she blinks as if just realizing what she said. And then smiles ruefully. "Touche."

He shrugs. He and Clarke know better than anyone that matters of the heart are never simple or logical. They just are. The only thing about his heart that seems even remotely predictable is the fact that it keeps falling for Clarke, over and over again.

—

It's peacetime when they run into that old Grounder woman Edna again, the one that had called them the Commanders of Death.

They're part of the delegation attending at another trade talk, standing at the gates and waiting for the clan leader. The clan is situated on a cliff side, overlooking a beautiful mountain view. Bellamy catches a glimpse of the woman walking between huts and he catches Clarke's sleeve. When she looks up at him, questioning, he jerks his head in the direction, and her eyes follow.

"It's her," she marvels. She looks at Bellamy excitedly. "She knows about us, Bellamy."

He doesn't disagree. She must have known, somehow.

"She's a witch or something," Clarke breathes. "We should go talk to her."

He's already regretting bringing it up. "Why?"

She's silent. But her eyes are far away.

"Clarke," he says, a little sternly, "don't tell me you're thinking about asking her for a wish again."

"I'm not," she says quickly. She chews her lip. "But… I do want answers."

He waits.

"How long is this going to go for us?" she asks him lowly. "Is there any rhyme or reason to how long this—" she gestures between them—"lasts?"

"Maybe it's better not to find out," he tells her. The two of them haven't talked a lot about it; there's an inevitability to the situation they are in that Bellamy prefers not to think about.

"Hmm."

The clan leader comes out, effectively shutting down the conversation but Bellamy persists for one last point. "Clarke, we're talking about this later."

"Fine."

—

They don't talk much with their words that evening. Instead, in the hut they've been given for the night Clarke fucks him like it's her mission, and he fucks her right back. It feels a little like an argument, one that they end by collapsing against the mattress together in exhaustion.

"Tiring me out isn't going to make it easier to get me to agree with you," he pants.

Her chest rises and falls rapidly as she stares up at the ceiling. "Bellamy, why is it so hard to understand that maybe I just really felt like having sex?"

"You're marathoning tonight," he replies. "Which means you have an agenda. So let's have that talk now. We both know this tactic just ends up backfiring on you anyway."

He knows he's right when she yawns. "Bellamy, I have to know."

"I told you to drop it."

"And I told _you_ I wanted answers. Real ones. I'm so tired of not knowing, Bellamy. I can't drop it. Not when she's right there." She turns to face him, eyes pleading. "Please. Just this once, and if she doesn't know anything I _will_ drop it after that."

He sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. "Fine. In the morning." It's hard not to relent when she's looking at him like that.

She smiles and leans forward to kiss him again. It's forceful, hungry still.

Still not quite recovered from their last bout, he leans away from her to laugh, "You got what you wanted, you know. You can stop."

Clarke clambers on top of him, eyes glinting. Her stamina is truly formidable. "I definitely didn't get _all_ I wanted." She grinds on him to make her point, and he grabs her hips reflexively, drops his head into the pillows and groans.

"You're going to put me in an early grave."

"And I'll be waiting on the other side," she says, voice sugary.

Needless to say, it's a long night.

—

When morning comes, they're both yawning.

"Do you want to go ask her now?" Bellamy asks. "We're leaving right after the agreement is signed. Might not get time after this."

She chews her lip as she ties her hair back. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

He blinks and pauses in tying up his boots, taken aback at the question. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"I was thinking about it last night, afterwards. I never asked you what _you_ wanted."

Bellamy stares at her.

"Bellamy, if you don't want to try to get answers— if you'd rather not know— I'm fine with that." She comes up to him where he's still sitting on the bed and places her hands on his shoulders. "For once, let's do what you want."

Touched, he wraps his hands around the back of her thighs, drawing her in close so he can lean his head against her stomach. "Clarke, it's not like that. I want what you want."

"Well, I want what _you_ want." She cradles his head closer, leans into him.

His lips twitch at the chicken or the egg scenario they've suddenly found themselves in. "That's... unfortunate."

"If it were up to you," she persists, "and if I wasn't around to ask, would you go to her?"

He thinks about that, and then shakes his head. "I don't think so," he says truthfully.

Her reply is instant. "Then it's done."

"Clarke," he starts, "if you want answers—"

She climbs on his lap as he talks and shuts him up with a kiss. "Don't," she cuts him off when they part. "She probably doesn't even _have_ answers, anyway. I don't think anyone does, except that djinn."

She sounds a little sad at the thought. He runs a hand down her spine soothingly. "Maybe it's like you said," he replies, "About the meaning of life. That we just have to make up our own."

She smiles at the memory and fixes her gaze back on him. "In that case, maybe we've already found it."

—

They don't go to find Edna, but Edna finds them before the morning is over.

She runs into them, looking the same as she did years ago, although with a red bandana covering her hair instead of blue. She's holding a pail of water in her hands, and she looks between them. "I wondered if I would see you again, Wanhedas."

Clarke says nothing, but Bellamy knows she's itching to ask, so he does it for her.

"You're a witch," he says quietly, so none of the others can hear.

She doesn't bat an eye. "Is that what you call it? I am a descendant, that's all. I don't have the power of my ancestors. I simply see things." She pauses. "And I see you've been awakened."

Bellamy looks at Clarke. Despite their earlier conversation, he doesn't want her to wonder for the rest of her life. "Yes. And if you could, we'd like some answers." Clarke turns to him, eyes wide.

"About what?" the woman says. "You're not Wanhedas anymore." Clarke's mouth drops open and Bellamy blinks, giving the woman ample opportunity to shoulder past them into her hut.

Predictably, Clarke instantly recovers and follows. "Wait." Bellamy is two steps behind her.

The woman doesn't pause in her strides.

"What do you mean?" Clarke persists.

The woman turns to fix her gaze on something around them that they can't see. "I mean that the spell is broken."

Silence.

"Broken?" Bellamy croaks. "You mean—"

"I mean you'll die, yes," the woman replies. "For good this time."

He's stunned. Naturally, Clarke is the one to take it in stride.

"Why?" Clarke asks. "Who broke the spell?"

" _You_ did, of course." When neither of them seem to understand, she makes an impatient sound. "Who else could?"

"How?" Bellamy manages.

"You married each other," the woman replies as if it's obvious.

Bellamy glances at Clarke. She looks equally confused. The only time they ever got married was in their first life. "What? We never even had a ceremony—"

"Marriage isn't a ceremony, girl," the old woman scoffs, settling into her chair. "It's a state of mind. When your lives, your journeys, and your souls are aligned, that is what marriage truly is." When she's again met with silence, she adds, "Just think about it. I'm guessing that whoever cast this spell told you exactly how to break it, if you were just paying attention."

Clarke's outraged for a moment at the condescending tone of voice. "No, they didn't! The djinn just said…" her voice trails, and Bellamy remembers what Clarke has told him about that conversation over a thousand years ago.

"She said she wanted to see us in love again," Clarke recalls softly. "For us to have another chance at a life together…"

And there it is, Bellamy thinks. In all their lives, they've never—they've never truly had a _chance_. Something has always stopped them. Be it physical separation, or emotional, or temporal.

While Clarke stares off into space, Bellamy has to brace himself against the wall. He suddenly feels very faint.

"Looks to me like you weren't paying too much attention back then," the old woman says with an air of satisfaction. "I've given you answers. Now get out of my hut."

Neither of them move, too shocked. The woman sighs, and in true Grounder fashion pulls out a blade.

"Do I have to repeat myself? Get out of my hut."

—

They don't have much time for talking after that. The day starts, which means they're needed. So they're split apart for a few hours, and don't have an opportunity to talk until a while later when their group leaves the Grounder village.

It's mid-afternoon when they stop for a break, still cliff-side. There's a large tree near the edge of the cliff, and needing a little space at the moment, Bellamy climbs it to the topmost branch that he can safely sit on. He's still thinking about what the old woman had said.

From here, he can see the whole valley spread out before him, everywhere that the sun hits. He can see his people below the tree, laughing and joking with each other, the remnants of the original hundred as well as new people they've found along the way.

"What are you doing up there?" Clarke asks, and he looks down to see her staring up at him from the base of the trunk.

"Brooding," Raven answers for him.

Clarke's mouth twitches before she announces to him, "I'm coming up."

"Don't," he says immediately. "It's too dangerous. I'll come down." As soon as the words leave his mouth, he realizes she will take it as a dare.

Sure enough, her eyes narrow and she climbs the tree, using the same handholds he had. He's on edge the entire time, until she's finally situated near the top, on a branch on the other side of the trunk.

She spits hair out of her mouth, panting slightly. "That wasn't so hard."

He represses his smile and turns his gaze back to the horizon. She mirrors him, leaning against the trunk and sighing.

"So I guess this is it, huh."

He nods thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure how to feel," she admits to him quietly, leaning closer so that the others won't hear. "I mean, what if we die tomorrow?"

It's a real possibility, but somehow it doesn't bother him. "Then we do the same thing we would've done if we didn't remember— live the hell out of today."

She's quiet at that. Then: "Remember in Vancouver, how my neighbours had their white picket fence? Nice rose bushes? Perfect life?"

"How could I forget," he says dryly. He'd been almost awed, looking at all the luxury.

"I thought a lot about us having that life," she says quietly. "No death, no hard decisions, no pain. Just us living in a nice house, with a nice lawn, going to our jobs every day and coming home to each other."

He thinks about that, tilting his head, and then looks at her to crack a grin. "Sounds kind of boring."

A smile spreads over her face and she giggles into her hand. His grin grows wider watching her.

"Yeah, I guess it kind of does," she laughs, and then grows thoughtful. "I think… I think I like it this way." She sounds cautious, as if not sure he would agree.

But of course he does, infinitely glad they're on the same page about this. "It feels right. This is the lifetime where I feel the most like…"

"Yourself?" she supplies quietly. He exhales and nods.

Their first life together wasn't easy, either. They were leaders, had to make hard decisions. In some ways, it's fitting that this lifetime, so symmetrical to the first, will be their last. It feels right.

"I wonder what life will be like after we die," she says suddenly. "We won't know what happens in the future anymore."

He shrugs, unbothered. "That doesn't mean we can't still have an effect on it." She tilts her head at him, and he elaborates. "I never asked to live forever, Clarke. But what we do _now_ can make the future a little better for whoever comes after. That's the only kind of immortality I want."

"Legacy." Clarke hums in contentment. "I like that." And then she leans around the tree trunk. He takes the cue to meet her halfway and their lips meet in the middle, sun shining on their faces, valleys of Earth laid out before them, and catcalls from their delinquents below.

Miller yells up at them in sing-song, "Bellamy and Clarke, sittin' in a tree—"

Bellamy breaks from the kiss just to snap a twig off the branch he's sitting on and throw it with unerring accuracy at Miller, while Raven stands nearby hooting with laughter.

Far from irritated, though, he only feels fondness watching them down below. He loves them too, albeit in a different way than he loves Clarke.

Clarke reads his mind, reaching for his hand. "They'll be alright."

"Even after we die," he agrees, although he hopes of course that that day won't come for a long time yet. Because he has _plans_ , goddamnit. They still have their whole lives ahead of them. They've survived together in this life much longer than they ever have in any life before, and this one has been one of the hardest. And that gives him more hope than he has had in a very long time.

"That's right. One day, we'll die," Clarke says softly, once again reading his mind. She squeezes his hand. "But first, we live."

The sun sets as Bellamy and Clarke continue sitting there, up in that tree overlooking the valley. In the back of his mind, he knows they should probably head out soon. There's still problems to deal with. There always are. But he doesn't move just yet; somehow, he feels very _alive_ right now. Like this is only the beginning. For now, it feels okay just to sit here, holding on to his best friend and breathing with her, in and out. There's no rush in this moment, really.

They've got all the time in the world.

.

.

 _Love is how you stay alive, even after you are gone_. —Mitch Albom

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* * *

 **A/N: It's over. Oh god I'm so emotional. actually, funny story: this story came from a tumblr prompt I got in my inbox in June that, when I read, I immediately went, "ooh, this sounds like it could be a scene in a wicked reincarnation AU." And now here we are, with the story about 60k longer than I planned— and that original scene that inspired it? I ended up cutting it out, SO I DIDN'T EVEN FILL THE PROMPT. I can't believe how creative I've gotten at Wasting Time.**

 **Anyway, I want to thank MJ and Sjaan (wellamyblake and readymachine on tumblr respectively), my friends and beta-readers. I felt confident putting this story up because of their diligent work on it. I also want to thank Wikipedia for being the source for 90% of the "research" for this fic. Truly, an amazing website.**

 **I think you guys know by now how happy it makes me to get comments on my stories, but I'll say it again anyway: you make it worth it. And if you want to leave one but don't know what to say, honestly I'm kinda curious which your favourite lifetimes were— I know I have MY favs, but what were yours? ;)**

 **Either way, thank you for reading til the end; I know this kind of story isn't everyone's cup of tea. It is really special to me, though, so I sincerely hope you enjoyed the journey.**


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